


go astray

by l_cloudy



Series: Astray [2]
Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Anal Sex, Background Het, Casual Sex leads to feelings, Enemies to Lovers, First Kiss, Frottage, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Power Dynamics, Public Hand Jobs, Rimming, Semi-Public Sex, Voyeurism, character study through sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-24
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-03-25 04:14:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 46,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13826244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/l_cloudy/pseuds/l_cloudy
Summary: "Can't fight?" said Orlant. "You're only here to fuck the Prince?"Canon AU. All the times Damen and Laurent can’t keep their hands off each other on the way to the border.





	1. Chastillon

**Author's Note:**

> Once I wrote [a fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13051920) where Damen and Laurent had sex in the aftermath of the Book 1 assassination attempt. Then someone suggested ‘What if after hooking up Damen and Laurent keep on snaking off to have not-quite-hatesex all the time?’
> 
> So my brain went and made a list of all the times in which they COULD have had sex, but didn’t. But they could have! Or they could make out! Or they could cuddle! And thus this fic was born. It follows the plot of Prince’s Gambit pretty closely – chapters are mostly missing scenes with character moments and, you know, smut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big, big thanks to 27th for reading through this and gently, firmly, metaphorically taking me by the hand and telling me ‘This needs more sex’.

The bed in the Regent’s rooms in Chastillon was large and imposing and done up all in red.

Red covers, red cushions, red canopy with red curtains. Damen, for all that he’d grown up surrounded by crimson uniforms and banners all trimmed in gold, found the overabundance of shades violent to the sight. It was tasteless, even for Vere, and yet his eyes were drawn to it often, a bright red spot in the corner of his field of vision.

“Are you tired?”

The concern dripping from Laurent’s voice was like honey, a blatant condescension. He hadn’t given one look at the bed since they’d sat down to plan and now regarded Damen in a way that made him acutely aware of the heavy carving knife that was still on the table between them.

“In my experience, a military campaign runs much more effectively when the men aren’t asleep on their feet,” said Damen, who wasn’t feeling tired, but was feeling contrarian. Laurent had that effect on him.

Laurent gave a long, considering look. They’d been at it for hours, plotting about half the campaign, and Damen had answered so many questions his throat was dry.

“All right, we can stop here,” Laurent said. He pushed himself away from the table, stretching his arms up and behind his head. Damen watched him: the lines of his body, the sliver of throat revealed above over his collar when Laurent tossed his head back, eyes falling half closed.

Three days ago, he and Laurent had fucked. It had been unexpected, surprisingly intimate, and Damen hadn’t been able to catch his breath since. He still didn’t like Laurent. They hadn’t talked about it: Laurent had returned to his rooms in the morning after a gruelling Council summon, and spoken about their imminent departure and secret plans of war with Akielos. He’d disappeared for two days to plot and prepare for their campaign, and Damen hadn’t known until that morning that he would be expected to share Laurent’s lodgings, night after night, for weeks.

Damen resolutely didn’t look to the bed, or to Laurent. He kept his eyes on the map instead, waiting to see what would happen, and so he missed Laurent rising from his seat until he was almost halfway to the door.

He frowned. “Where are you going?”

“I don’t believe I have to explain myself to you,” said Laurent, like the prickling of a blade against skin. “There are things I need to see to.”

“You can’t be serious.” It was possibly the most stupid thing he’d heard Laurent say. “It’s two hours to dawn,” he said. “Everyone is asleep, the stables and the armoury are locked shut, and the castle is filled to the brink with your uncle’s men.” Damen stood up and began to approach until a calm look made him reconsider. He stopped.

“Thank you,” said Laurent. “I haven’t asked for your opinion.”

“You said you would listen to reasoned objections. This is an objection,” said Damen. The idea of Laurent roaming the corridors of Chastillon at night was madness. “You have no guards. Don’t go out wandering.”

“Are you offering to accompany me?” Laurent asked, sickly sweet. “I thought you wanted to go to sleep.”

“I will, if you actually have somewhere to be. But it’s not safe to go out for a walk.” Alone, at night, three days after an assassination attempt. Dealing with Laurent was an exercise in frustration.

Laurent’s face, usually an impenetrable mask, turned down at the corners of the mouth. He seemed to deflate, from the minute slouch of his shoulder to the sudden weariness in his voice when he said, “You might be right,” like it cost him half his kingdom. Then he turned his eyes towards the bed. He stood, in the middle of the room, immobile like a statue.

Damen watched him, and waited, and then when nothing happened he shrugged to himself and went to open his saddlebags.

Having defused the immediate danger of Laurent getting himself killed, he began to undress for the night. They’d given him sleeping trousers along with his uniform and the armour, and he put them on. There was also a woollen sleeping shirt that he would need among the mountains but was certainly excessive now, in this draped room with the wooden flooring and the burning hearth.

He left the shirt off.

Damen dropped his bags to the floor next to the pallet, quenched all the candles burning in the bedchamber and the adjacent sitting room, and when he came back he saw that Laurent was still standing near the bed, looking down at it. He was tracing absent-mindedly one of the thin columns that held up the canopy, that too painted red, and gave no signs of wanting to do anything else.

Damen cleared his throat. “Is everything all right?”

Laurent flinched, as if startled. His eyes, when he turned around, carried a familiar burning look that Damen knew well. “Perfectly,” he said.

Damen remembered, then, that those were the Regent’s chambers – Laurent’s uncle, who’d ordered him dead and kept a child catamite he went to bed with. He thought that perhaps he understood: the thought of Kastor sleeping in the King’s rooms in Ios, where his father had died, twisted something unpleasantly inside him.

He said, cautiously, “Would you prefer I take the bed?”

Laurent flinched, then turned his head away and gave a laugh that was very dry. “An Akielon slave in the bed of the Regent of Vere, while the heir to the throne sleeps on the floor. Imagine my uncle’s steward stumbling upon the scene in the morning.”

That was a no, then. Laurent held himself rigidly, back so straight he looked about to break, and it was only the first night of their journey. Damen had weeks of this to look forward to, and there was a surge of discouragement at the scenario opening in front of him, and annoyance at Laurent’s attitude. If Laurent was to go on campaign for months, do some soldiering for once in his life, he should learn to be less fastidious and take comfort where he could get it. He couldn’t expect to be as pampered on the road as he had been in the royal palace, and as long as he remained alive his well-being was none of Damen’s concern.

“If you don’t need me for anything, I’ll go to bed,” he said, fully expecting to be ignored. Laurent did not like to accept help. Laurent didn’t want to be around him. Damen was fine with it. He did not want to be around Laurent either, or to be any closer to him than duty required.

Laurent didn’t speak. He eyed Damen, considering, from the top of his head down to his bare feet, and it felt as though he were looking past him, to somewhere beyond.

 _Right_ , Damen thought, and he moved to cross the cavernous room to where his pallet was. Laurent could keep at it until dawn, for all he cared.

“Wait,” he heard, and the shock of the word resounded all through his body, stroking his memories. An instinctive burst of want that had him shuddering. He turned around to meet stern blue eyes.

“I haven’t dismissed you yet,” Laurent was saying, but he stopped when he looked at Damen. There must have been something on his face, an echo of the memory he was reliving. The other day, he should have escaped. He could have been halfway to the border by now, but Laurent had kept him back. Damen had turned his back on him, much like now, and Laurent had told him to wait, and then he’d taken him to bed.

Laurent must be thinking about it, too. He had stilled. Damen became intimately aware of the presence of the huge bed next to them, his chest exposed to the air of the room, the intimate light of the dying fire.

“I didn’t mean,” said Laurent. “Like that.”

“Didn’t you?”

Laurent’s brow furrowed. “I didn’t.” He looked away from Damen and to his uncle’s bed, glaring as if he meant to set it on fire. And then he looked back to Damen.

There was a new purpose in Laurent’s voice when he spoke again. “He’d hate it, wouldn’t he?”

Damen, who couldn’t begin to guess at the nature of the animosity between Laurent and the Regent, didn’t answer. He saw that Laurent’s hands were closed into fists at his sides, and he was openly scowling, his entire body coiled with tension. It was the most emotion Laurent had ever shown.

Except that wasn’t quite true, because Damen remembered perfectly well how Laurent had flushed in bed, under his hand – and his tongue, and his cock. Laurent in bed carried himself with steeled determination, tempered with a good dose of shyness, and an odd sense of wonder that hung about him like cloying Veretian perfume.

“You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?” said Laurent. “I can tell you like the idea. You’re picturing it.” His voice, low, held a hint of nerves. His upper lip had curled up in a fraction of a smile, clearly feeling much better about himself now that he could make himself a nuisance.

Laurent was infuriating. Not that long ago, this had made him repulsive in Damen’s eyes. Now he’d learned better: there was a certain satisfaction to be found in watching Laurent fall undone. Memories were swarming across his mind, unlocked from whatever dark corner of he’d shoved them in the name of survival, and he couldn’t stop thinking about it. Laurent’s body. The shadow of Laurent’s lashes on his cheeks, Laurent’s skin glistening with sweat.

Damen realised he had been staring. Laurent remained calm under the weight of it, staring right back; then, deliberately, he sat down on the bed.

It wasn’t quite as impressive as Laurent probably wished. He sat carefully, on the edge of the mattress, flinching slightly when the heavy crimson draperies of the canopy brushed his shoulder. Damen remained where he was.

“If you want me to play along, you’ll have to ask,” he said, because Laurent was already overindulged as it was. Laurent’s eyes flickered, briefly, down to his lap. His usual confidence seemed to fail him in the bedroom, and it was plain that he didn’t like being made to ask for it.

Damen waited.

“Fine,” Laurent said. He looked from Damen to the red velvet curtain hanging from the top of the bedpost; his voice took on a spiteful note. “Fine,” he said, again. “We should fuck. On my uncle’s ugly bed. What a fitting end to a stay in Chastillon.”

Despite himself, knowing that Laurent was petulant and it wouldn’t do to encourage him, Damen asked, “Do you really think he’d care?”

Laurent’s face darkened. “Perhaps we should stop discussing my uncle,” he said. He brought his hands up to the high neck of his black leathers, unpleasantly harsh against his pale colouring. “Come over here.” He held out a leg. “My boots.”

To divest Laurent of his boots, he would have to kneel. Damen took a moment to consider the situation, then walked over to the bed and sat down on the mattress, a short distance away from Laurent, and pulled the offered foot on his lap. Laurent regarded him with an unimpressed glance.

“Stubborn,” he said, as if he had any rights to talk.

Laurent had him remove his boots and fold his clothes, and place them over the sturdy, overly ornate bedside table. Damen bristled at the order and amused himself watching the skittish way Laurent went about undressing the bed, throwing the red cushions to the floor as if he couldn’t stand the touch of velvet, and stripping bright red covers to reveal sheets the colour of wine.

Clad only in a linen undershirt, bare legs tucked under his body, Laurent looked young and slight in the middle of all that red. When Damen joined him, the mattress sank minutely under his weight, and the springs creaked. He distinctly saw Laurent swallow. Then he began untying the curtains in the corner; they fell open one by one, thick and heavy, obscuring the room from view.

Damen said, “If you pull them all, we won’t be able to see.”

“Yes,” said Laurent. “It’s an ugly room.”

He couldn’t argue with that. The last curtain fell; there was a small strip of light across the mattress and the vague contours of Laurent’s body, and everything else was dark.

Then Laurent surprised him with one hand to his bare shoulder, cold to the touch.

“You’re not fucking me tonight,” said Laurent. Damen’s first thought was that it was a shame, but it wasn’t as if they couldn’t find plenty of other possibilities. His second was that it was just like Laurent to lay down coolly-declaimed instructions before they even began. Then Damen remembered who Laurent was to him, the heavy gold encircling his neck. He tensed.

“Oh, calm down.” Laurent, who clearly enjoyed holding the upper hand, sounded faintly amused. “Nobody will be doing any fucking. We don’t have anything.”

In a room like this, meant for Veretian nobility, given to the Prince to share with a pet, there would certainly be a vial of oil tucked away discretely somewhere. Two dozen vials was more like it, hidden in a drawer, under the pillows of the divan in the sitting room, or inside the cabinet next to the imposing copper bathtub. That Laurent was lying was evident. Perhaps he just didn’t want to rummage through the Regent’s things.

“Well,” said Damen. His voice caught a bit on that first word. “There are alternatives.”

He was suddenly very conscious of Laurent’s hand on his shoulder. Laurent sat on his knees in the centre of the mattress. In this position, he was taller than Damen, who was sitting with his legs hanging off the edge, and the fall of his hair obscured his eyes as he looked down at him.

Laurent regarded him with another considering look. “You’re going to suck me,” he said, as if daring him to object. Or trying to convince Damen, or perhaps himself. He sounded as though he’d given some thought to the idea.

“Do you have this all planned out?” The thought amused him. He wouldn’t put it past Laurent to have choreographed their entire encounter in his head the moment he’d decided it was going to happen.

“I am telling you what I want,” said Laurent. “Unless…” he spoke as though it took a great physical effort to push the sounds past his mouth. “Do you not want–” He paused.

Damen’s amusement only grew. After days and weeks of Laurent strutting around, clad in his perfect composure and maddening aloofness, he felt a sort of cruel delight in seeing him uncertain like this.

“It’s fine,” he said. He didn’t bother hiding the laughter from his voice, the anticipation when he thought of all that was to come. The sound of normal human doubt in Laurent’s voice was nothing compared to knowing that he would have the chance to ruin him. It wasn’t quite the revenge he’d wished for in Arles, but it was sweeter.

“Lay down,” Damen said.

Laurent, for once in his life, did as he was told. He slipped out of his shirt, a pale shadow in the half-darkness, and laid himself down with a gentle swish of cloth. Damen put a hand over the hollow of Laurent’s hipbone to find the silky skin there. He felt him stiffen instinctively at the touch, then minutely relax.

He traced a lazy path with his fingers, down to the crease of Laurent’s thigh and to the left, where he felt the tickle of fine hair. Then Damen bent his head and pressed his lips where his hand had been.

At the touch, Laurent flinched.

“All right?” Damen asked, patronizing. He breathed the words into Laurent’s skin and felt him shiver. Then another press of lips, another minute tremor under his mouth. A sudden urge took him to leave a mark, to make sure Laurent could never deny this in daylight.

Laurent, above him, said, “This is not what I told you to do.”

He sounded more puzzled than impatient. “You know,” said Damen. “These things don’t have to follow a battle plan. We can improvise.”

Damen waited for Laurent’s reply, but there was none, and so he trailed lower past the curve of hip and down to Laurent’s inner thigh. His skin was very smooth there; he closed his lips against it and sucked. When he had begun Laurent had been mostly soft; now he was hardening, and the length of his cock brushed against Damen’s cheek. Damen put again his hand on Laurent’s hip then turned his head, and licked a thick stripe along the curve of Laurent’s cock.

Laurent lurched at the contact, his reaction for once uninhibited and genuine. Damen licked along the underside of Laurent’s cock and was rewarded with a gasp that sent a flare of arousal down his own body. When he took the head in his mouth and sucked on it, he had to hold Laurent down with both hands. It was as though his body, so tightly held in check, couldn’t withstand the waves of pleasure, the sensation of wetness drying on heated flesh.

He pulled back.

“No instructions?” Damen felt reckless. He said, lazily, “I thought you liked to talk.”

Under his hands, Laurent had gone very still. “Shut up.”

“I think,” he said. “That you don’t know how to ask for what you want.” Damen didn’t know what had come over him. He wasn’t one to talk in bed. He liked to touch, to taste, to run his hands everywhere and put his mouth to hot skin. He liked to fuck, and take everything that was offered to him. But with Laurent, physical sensations were only half of it. Laurent would respond to words.

“I think you’re scared.”

He said it with his mouth one inch away from Laurent’s cock. Damen felt him shiver, and he leaned in, and he took his cock again in his mouth. Just the head this time, swollen with blood, wet with salty precome and his own spit. The loud breath he coaxed from Laurent was endlessly gratifying. There he was, stripped of all his layers, just a boy on a bed.

Then he pulled back.

Damen sat up, wiping at the corner of his mouth. He curled his hand around the base of Laurent's cock, squeezing softly, looking down to see the rise and fall of Laurent's chest.

“You’re panting.” There was some self-satisfaction there. Laurent would look good like this, flushed and out of breath. It was dark, but Damen could imagine it. He reached out to pull the curtain back, just a bit, and specks of light filtered in to reveal the sight of Laurent, sweat falling into his eyes, undone. “You're–”

“Don’t,” Laurent said. “Stop stalling.” It was a gasp, soft, almost like a plea. Damen, slowly, nodded.

He went back to it, licking a thin stripe down to the root of Laurent’s cock with the tip of his tongue, then pressed the flat of it against the underside of the head. Laurent groaned, exhaling sharply. Damen sucked there, just the head, his tongue working tiny circles against swollen flesh. Laurent liked this. His breath had changed, and his arm jerked over the mattress.

Damen did it again, sucking through open lips, one burst of sharp suction after the other. He pressed a path of hot circles over the length of Laurent’s cock – in a different sort of mood, he might have thought of it as kissing. Laurent had fallen quiet, but his breaths came short and fast, and when Damen swallowed down around him his whole body shook.

Laurent’s small, controlled reactions were unlike anything Damen had ever encountered before, and it was a thrill to coax from him every little sound. And it felt good, to feel him react like this. It felt fucking incredible. Laurent was no longer stifling his every sound, no longer trying desperately to stay still. Damen suckled on the head while working the shaft with one hand, down to the root, cupping one of his balls with callused fingers. He put his lips there next, sucking it into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the soft tissue. Damen pressed with the tip of a saliva-slick finger on the spot right there behind his balls and made him buckle in stunned pleasure.

He kept at it, over and over. Getting Laurent to come was a lengthy affair, it seemed, just as irritating and secretly enticing as every other facet of his personality. But then, eventually, Laurent began raising his hips rhythmically in time with Damen’s hand and the slide of his tongue, real sounds spilling from his throat, and Damen thought, _there_.

Then Laurent’s hand found his shoulder, the touch as surprising as it had been the first time, and pushed up. “Wait,” Laurent was saying. “Wait, that’s enough.”

It didn’t make any sense, which was just like Laurent. Damen sat up, the motion reminding his body that he was still wearing trousers, open at the crotch, and that he was hard and leaking against the cloth. He met Laurent’s eyes in the dim hints of light.

“Do you need a minute?”

There was a pause, a long breath. Then, “Don’t be smug,” Laurent said, not quite as tartly as he usually would. “There’s something else. Come here. Take those off.”

Damen, curious despite himself, stretched down along the length of the mattress, Laurent’s body alongside his own. He shrugged off his trousers and Laurent’s hand found him immediately, closing firmly around the length of his cock, wet with spit. It was crude and unexpected, in this opulent bed in fragrant Vere, and he jerked into Laurent’s hand.

“You can’t fuck me,” said Laurent, punctuating the word with a brisk stroke. “You can’t. But I’ll make you wish you were.”

He rolled over and directed Damen to lay on top of him, his abdomen to Laurent’s back, his cock nestled against the curve of Laurent’s ass in a position he’d always favoured. Laurent’s hand, warmer now that it had been earlier in the night, and wet, guided him to the tight space between his thighs, pressed closely together. There would be friction, there, when he moved. It would be rough.

Laurent asked, “Yes?”

“Yes,” said Damen. And then, “You did plan this out,” with that sort of good-natured, contented air that he always got when he was like this, even though it was with Laurent and he should have known better. “How long have you been thinking about it?”

There was no answer. Damen pulled up, Laurent laid out under him in the shadows. He sat with his knees on either side of Laurent’s tights, closed. It would feel so snug there, all that warm friction, but it would be nothing like being inside of him, pushing in deep. You can’t fuck me, Laurent had said, and now, because he’d said it, Damen wanted to desperately.

With one hand he traced the cleft of Laurent’s ass, pressing there, feeling the hole beneath his fingers. His cock was pulsing with every beat of his heart, leaking clear fluid. He took himself in hand and pushed his cock there, where he wanted to be, rubbing the tip of it against the puckered rim. It was–

“I told you,” said Laurent, beneath him, but it was weak, his voice trembling. “You can’t.” He was pressing back against Damen’s cock like he wanted nothing more than to be filled, and Damen pressed right back into him, pumping into his hand, rubbing wet stripes up and down across Laurent’s hole. It was tantalizing to have this, almost but not quite, an exercise in delayed gratification that had his blood boiling.

Damen let himself fall back down, lying with his body pressed to Laurent’s back so that he could put his mouth to Laurent’s neck. Laurent arched into it, the press of his lips and the slick slide of Damen’s cock between his thighs, and they found a rhythm like that, and there was the sound of shallows breaths and the tickle of Laurent’s hair against his cheek. With every thrust the blunt head of his cock hit Laurent’s sac from behind, leaving wet traces, and Laurent pressed back with frenzied pushes, losing himself to it.

Damen’s eyes flickered closed, hot sparks running through his veins. He thrust into the pressure and it felt so tight, warmth spreading to his entire body. When he felt himself growing close Damen instinctively reached around to cup Laurent’s cock, to roll it in his palm and make Laurent shudder and spill under him. Laurent’s hand stopped him, encircling his wrist over the gold, and he left his fingers there, keeping his hand pinned until Damen broke into jerky motions and he couldn’t keep it in anymore – and then Laurent was coming, too, just from the feeling of Damen’s cock and the silk red sheets, heat and friction.

After, he hardly had any time to catch his breath before he felt Laurent slip from under him, rolling away in a rustle of sheets. He felt languid and satisfied with the lustre of orgasm. It had grown warm in the bed, under the heavy curtains, and the small dim space smelled like sex.

Just as he was thinking it, one of the curtains was pulled back completely; he felt fresher air on his body, the sound of bare feet hitting the carpet. He sat up sharply.

“You can’t be leaving now,” said Damen, incredulous.

The fire had burned to embers, half of Laurent’s face was clad in shadow. The other half was tinted red, like everything in the room; he was looking downwards, taking in the length of Damen’s body, unreadable.

“I’m not,” he said. “I was just – not that it’s any of your business.” He used a corner of the sheet to clean himself up, fastidiously, seemingly uncaring of Damen’s eyes on his body, crumbling fistfuls of blood-red silk. When Laurent spoke, his voice carried the sharpness of broken glass.

“You can go anytime,” he said, pointedly. “I’m certainly not stopping you.”

The bed was large enough for three people to lie comfortably in it side by side, but clearly far too small for Damen to stay in it along with Laurent and all of his strange moods. He climbed out of it and into his pallet, that smelled pleasantly clean and did not contain a single scrap of velvet.

He fell asleep to the sight of Laurent, staring morose into the fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun historical fact of the day: intercrural sex was arguably _the_ most popular sex act in ancient Greece. I feel like it's relevant to the chapter and very important information overall.


	2. Bailleux

After Chastillon they headed towards Varenne, to the east, and the forest gave way to endless grassland, covered in flower buds and criss-crossed with shallow streams. It was also full of insects, swarms of forest flies that kept buzzing as if they were purposefully trying to drive Damen to madness. Even in high summer, the air in Vere wasn’t as warm as it would normally be in Akielos, but it was humid, and Veretian armour heavy. The boots were especially uncomfortable, new leather that hadn’t yet begun to soften.

In all of this, Laurent appeared completely unbothered. His golden hair was drenched in sweat, same as everybody else, but he didn’t seem to let the weariness of the road touch him. He was always at the head of the column, back straight and eyes on the path ahead.

Two days into the march they met with a contingent from one of Laurent’s estates in the region, currently forfeited to the Regency in its entirety except for the troop of one hundred and fifty men Laurent had cajoled the Council into giving him. The Regent, displeased at the turn of events, had given Laurent Govart. Govart was a shit captain, and the way he kept leering at Laurent would have unnerved even Damen had those looks been turned towards him. Laurent managed to ignore it completely, but he grew bitchier as the hours wore on. Most of the Guard kept their distance; Damen, who couldn’t, entertained himself with thoughts of shutting Laurent up in creative ways.

When they made camp he had to pitch Laurent’s tent, twice as large as any of the others, then haul Laurent’s chests inside along with Laurent’s armour while Laurent looked upon impatiently, eager to return to his maps. Then he went to retrieve his own saddlebags and tend to his horse, only to find out that Laurent had already taken care of that for him so that Damen could make himself useful sooner.

“Come here,” Laurent said, once they were alone. He extended one arm imperiously in Damen’s direction, wrist turned up to show intricate little knots. Damen took it slowly, trying not to think of the last time he’d done this, and what had followed. He should feel angry, being made to do this. He felt his pulse quicken.

He unlaced one sleeve to the elbow, then the other. There was a long row of buttons on Laurent’s side, small and round under his clumsy fingers, and he couldn’t seem to get them undone fast enough. The more time Damen spent fighting with the buttons the warmer his face felt. Laurent should have called for a camp servant to attend him, instead of wasting both their time in stupid power plays. Laurent had his head turned away, the fall of his hair hiding his mouth and eyes, and it annoyed Damen that he couldn’t see him.

“That’s enough,” said Laurent, once the jacket had fallen open. He pushed it off by himself. Then he said, “Boots.”

Their eyes met. Laurent’s stare was unblinking, his breath even.

This time, Damen had to go to his knees to unlace the boots. He did it hurriedly, a rush of artless motions, feeling newly aware of the tugging of healing scars on his bowed back. He held Laurent’s eyes throughout, waiting to see if he would look away first.

Laurent didn’t look away. There was a certain unease in his stare, and it was almost as satisfactory as if he’d closed his eyes against the intensity of the moment. Damen’s fingers, rather deliberately, skimmed the curve of Laurent’s calf.

“There,” he said, standing up. “Anything else?”

“Go sit at the table,” said Laurent. At his sides, his fingers opened and closed.

On the table there were a familiar map, a bowl of fruit, and water to drink. Damen sat down and listened to Laurent talk.

Laurent was good at strategy. He had a quick, logical mind, and grasped plans with ease. He could see schemes unfold in front of his eyes, picture uneven terrains where there was only flat ink and paper, but he seemed to have startling gaps in military theory. It was an odd dissonance. Damen remembered Auguste’s generalship on the field, directing an entire battle from the front lines for hours, and he doubted Auguste could have been of sharper mind than Laurent.

The evening wore on. Damen listened, and he spoke, and he watched Laurent lick stray drops of orange juice from his fingers, golden hair glistening in the candlelight. He thought, sometimes, that when he looked, he would catch Laurent looking back.

To distract himself, he began asking questions. Had Laurent never analysed the battle of Poros before? It was a staple in any kind of strategic education. Damen had first studied it when he’d been fourteen.

“I haven’t had any tutors in military strategy,” said Laurent, as if it were obvious. He made a dismissive gesture. “My uncle was in charge of my education. You can imagine.”

“But how do you–” Damen stopped. He had been about to ask Laurent how he could be expected to take the reins of the kingdom in nine months; that wouldn’t go over well.

“I read,” Laurent said. “Imagine, if there were more volumes on mountain warfare, I wouldn’t even need you.”

Damen thought he must be imagining things if he’d begun to find Laurent’s dry tones almost playful. He felt the weight of Laurent’s gaze on him, loaded and heavy. Damen shook his head to himself, trying to clear it, and put his eyes back on the map, that displayed in artful details the Veretian province of Lys.

Laurent’s fine finger traced a curved line – less than a day’s ride, even with the servants and pack horses slowing them down, but quite a distance to cover so close to the Vaskian border, on paths best travelled by mountain goat. They’d spent one hour trying to find a decent location to make camp halfway and found none.

“We can make it in one day if we ride hard enough,” Laurent said, and something about the words caught Damen’s attention, and held it. He stared.

Earlier today, after about seven hours of tolerating Govart, Laurent had snapped at the lieutenant in charge of the men from Varenne, who had fallen behind on the road. Laurent asked the man if he lacked for proper pets and let his stallion mount him instead, since from the way he kept his seat it was clear that he had no experience of how it should work the other way around. The lieutenant, a hardened career soldier on an admittedly finicky gelding, had looked mortified. Laurent had taken off on a perfect canter, body undulating rhythmically on the saddle, and Damen was thinking of it now, Laurent’s thighs and hips, sinew and harmony in motion.

He felt hot under his Veretian layers. Laurent was staring right back, silently inquisitive, searching Damen’s eyes with a curious look of his own. Damen saw the first spark of understanding, Laurent’s cheeks blooming with colours as he turned his face away in an unconscious display of shyness.

Damen cleared his throat. “Maybe we should do something about all those stragglers.”

“Yes,” Laurent said, fast. Then he met Damen’s eyes above the map. “No.” Then, a pause. “You…”

The silence had turned charged with anticipation. There was a primal appeal in seeing Laurent like this, this vulnerability. Damen found that he wanted to take him, again and again, make him spill over and over until he shuddered and begged for reprieve, body shaking and eyes filled with tears. Then in the morning light, he would look at Laurent, austere and golden, and he would remember how he’d wrecked him.

“Do you think about fucking every time you look at me? Don’t answer that.” Laurent rose from his seat. “Come here.”

He stood bathed in candlelight, much like some kind of erotic vision if not for all that talking. Damen made his way over, close enough to touch. He waited.

“When we left Chastillon, I spoke to the steward,” said Laurent. “I told him I had a scarcity of a personal nature.” His tone implied that he expected a reply, as if his words made even a shred of sense. Damen did his best to convey his opinion of these ramblings with a look. Laurent looked right back, equally even.

“I meant,” he said, exaggeratedly slow. “That I had him find oil so we could fuck. Or not. I could rescind my offer.”

Damen let his hands fall to Laurent’s waist, hands encircling Laurent’s hips. Laurent’s eyes went dark with intent. “You won’t,” he said, and enjoyed the subtle reaction his words caused, the shallow intake of breath. For all his aversion to touch Laurent clearly liked this, the feeling of a body stronger than his own. It was a heady discovery.

Laurent’s stare was only slightly ruined by the pink tinge of his face. “Don’t look so pleased with yourself,” he said. And then, “Will you move, or should we just stay here and look at each other?”

Laurent’s bedding was of silks and cottons, an endless expanse of luxury that was eminently unpractical to bring along on a military campaign. It felt good, however, lying upon it, soft cushions under his back as he sprawled down comfortably and threw his head back.

“Are you just going to lounge there?” Laurent said. “Make yourself useful.” He’d taken the last of his clothing and arranged himself on his side, half-buried between the covers so that Damen could only see hints of the smooth line of his back, the dip low there that he longed to touch. His head was propped up a folded arm, and he held Damen’s gaze with lazy poise. There was a high blush streaking his cheeks.

The oil Laurent had him fetch from his trunk was scented, lighter in substance than Akielon olive oil. Damen dipped a finger in it. With his other hand, he traced the inviting dimples down on Laurent’s back and the swell of his ass, as enticing to the touch as it was to the eye.

“That’s actually supposed to go inside,” said Laurent. His voice shook with charged nerves. “I thought you had done this before?”

Damen ignored him. He wanted to take his time, run his hand all over that pale flesh. The curve of Laurent’s hip fit perfectly under the palm of his hand, and the skin there had bloomed faint reds and purples from the press of Damen’s mouth, last night. That had been him, he thought, and he felt a new rush of blood down to his cock, the greedy satisfaction of staking his claim on something pretty and soft.

He liked the contrast of his hands, rough and sun-tanned, on Laurent’s unblemished body. He spread Laurent’s cheeks open with his fingers, exposing his hole. He was going to fit in there, Damen thought. He was going to fuck him.

He heard himself speak. “How do you want it?”

“I told you already,” Laurent said. “Fuck me.”

His thumb found Laurent's hole, circled it slowly. Laurent remained as he was, perfectly still. Damen pressed there, and he didn't breach it. “How?”

“I told you what to do. Put your fingers inside me.”

He did, sliding his thumb inside to the second knuckle, quick enough that it must have stung. Laurent inhaled sharply. “Yes,” he said, and Damen wondered if he'd meant to say it, or if it had just slipped out.

Damen said, “On your back.”

“Turn around,” he said, again. Laurent had given no signs of moving, only stared into Damen's face, curiously. He withdrew his finger. “Get on your back. I want to see you.”

Laurent, surprisingly, went along with it with little protest. His face was reddened, and his neck, all the way down to his chest. His cock was full and curved, his legs opened and bent at the knees. “Well.” He didn’t meet Damen’s eyes. “You're seeing me now.”

“Yes,” Damen said. Sitting up on his knees between Laurent's spread legs he could see all of him, his pale throat, the tension evident in his folded arm, thrown at an angle behind his head.

He reached out to grasp Laurent's cock with his oiled hand and felt it fill out in his grip. He gave one single stroke, with the firm touch he would have used on himself, then he placed his hand on Laurent's hip.

“Touch yourself.”

Laurent's head snapped up, his mouth falling slack with surprise. He sat up on one elbow to stare. “I don’t…” His eyes found Damen's face, searchingly, then turned away. “No.” He frowned. “That's what I have you for.”

“Touch your cock.” He wanted to learn what Laurent liked, so he could best take him apart. And he liked seeing Laurent stumble, self-conscious, off-balance. “I want to watch.”

“What, like a pet?” Laurent flung the words snidely to his face. At his side his hand curled, arm raising up just slightly.

“Pretend I'm not here,” said Damen, and Laurent scoffed.

“It’s not...”

Damen’s hand, resting on Laurent's body, traced a path up his stomach, and then back down, brushing the trail of hair there with the back of his fingers. “If you want this,” he said. “You’re going to have to give me something.”

Laurent's gaze was frosty under those curved lashes, and the line of his mouth promised retribution, but he understood games. He let his hand come up to curl around his cock, heavy and reddened with blood. The image was overwhelming, Laurent’s refined fingers around his twitching cock, the head swollen and glistening wet.

“Satisfied?”

“Keep going,” Damen said. That was his voice, made hazy with arousal. His own cock was curved up against his stomach, a familiar tension growing in his belly.

He raised his gaze to find Laurent staring intently, and he thought for a moment that perhaps he'd pushed too far, that Laurent would shy away and demand to be left alone, but then Laurent's eyes fell closed, head falling slack back on the pillow.

He kept going, and Damen watched it all. Laurent's touch, he learned, was delicate. He liked a loose grip and slow strokes, and the press of fingers against the sensitive slit. Damen watched the methodical twist of Laurent's wrist on the downstroke, the tightening of his fingers around the root of his cock, the jerk of his hips as he arched up into the pleasure. Damen's breath was coming out short, the rapid pulse of his heart echoing through his veins to every corner of his body. He grasped the base of his own cock, pumping it in time with the rhythm of Laurent’s hand.

Laurent’s voice, when he spoke again, was rough. “I told you to fuck me.”

Damen said, “Yes.”

This time, when he fucked Laurent open with his finger, they were face to face. He saw Laurent bite down on his lip so that he wouldn’t make any noise, the flutter of his lashes where he’d screwed his eyes shut. He curled his slick fingers inside Laurent’s hole and watched him turn his face to the side into the pillows, toss his head and push back against Damen’s touch with eagerness.

“I suppose you do have large hands. You should have – you should have reminded me.” Laurent made a small hitching noise in his throat, arched up to take it deeper. “Made your case, when you were trying to convince me to take you along.”

“Yes.” He didn’t know what he was saying. Laurent’s jitters were contagious. Laurent kept clenching on Damen’s fingers, warm and tight, and all Damen could think about was how it would feel once he was inside, what it would be like to fuck into Laurent and come inside of him.

Laurent’s hand was still on his cock, like Damen had told him to, and he was pumping it slowly. Drops of pre-come had fallen down on his stomach, tense with muscle, and Damen wanted – some other time, he would put his mouth there and make his way up, taste the salt on Laurent’s skin and leave marks all over.

For now, he pushed his fingers as deep as they would go, slid them open and watched Laurent shudder with the burn of the stretch. “Another,” said Laurent. “Another, I can take it.” He was rocking up into Damen’s hand like he wanted nothing more in the world than to be spread open and fucked, as if now that he had allowed himself pleasure he couldn’t get enough of it. They both groaned when Damen slipped a third finger inside.

The sound spurred him on. Laurent was quiet in bed, once he’d calmed down enough to stop talking, composed and clear-headed even when he should be a rambling mess. Damen wanted to hear him moan. He was suddenly very glad for Laurent’s extravagant tent, and the amount of privacy it granted them.

“That’s enough,” said Laurent, not much later, and Damen felt inclined to agree.

“I’m going to,” he said, and Laurent nodded and, in a sinuous motion, raised up his legs to circle Damen’s sides, drawing him in. Like this, Laurent’s ass was pressed snugly right above his cock, his hole slick and ready. Laurent’s own cock was wet against Damen’s belly, his balls full and heavy with need, all of him covered in sweat. The sight of it, all that porcelain skin and golden head and the curve of Laurent’s hard cock, hit him like a physical blow. He swallowed. When he put his hands on Laurent’s hips, his fingers dug into the flesh.

“You like me like this.” Laurent’s voice was breathless, and a little wry. “On my back.”

Damen did. It wasn’t a position he usually preferred, and certainly not like this, on his knees with not even a bed to lean on, but he’d found that he liked to look at Laurent’s face, seeing him unravel. He wanted to reach out and touch all of him. Most of all he wanted Laurent to see him, watch Damen move above him so that he wouldn’t for a moment forget who was taking him.

“Predictable,” he said, more coherent than Damen would have liked at this point. And then, “Next time, we’ll do it how I want.”

Next time. The thought made him dizzy. He brought his hand to tease at the tip of Laurent’s cock like he’d seen him do just minutes before, and was rewarded with a small throaty sound that resonated somewhere deep inside him. Then he closed his eyes and guided himself in.

It was too much; the feeling of it, exquisite, the soft sound of need that not even Laurent could hold back. And the awareness, when he opened his eyes, that this was Laurent he was fucking; Damen thought of how he’d seen him just that morning, proud and collected at the head of his men, and now here he was, legs spread and wanton.

Laurent was fever-hot inside, clenching around his cock like he wanted to feel all of this, every sensation, every minute shift and stretched inch. He moved with a slow, resolute pace, sliding out almost the entire way and then thrusting back with an intensity that had Damen reeling every time their bodies slammed together.

A man might lose himself to this, tight pleasure and pulsating arousal, and haughty, collected Laurent fucking himself on his cock. Damen did lose himself to it. He had forgotten, completely, of everything around them, the encampment and the men outside, the long march tomorrow and all that was to come. There was only Laurent, and himself, and the feeling of being inside Laurent and how good it was. He watched Laurent touch himself and it was nothing like it had been earlier, no practised strokes or elegant motions, just pure want.

“Can I,” Damen asked, and he shouldn’t have asked, he’d done so well earlier showing Laurent that he wasn’t to be trifled with. But it didn’t seem to matter so much, now.

“Let me,” he said, and Laurent nodded slowly, and their hands closed together around Laurent’s cock. There was a vein there under Damen’s fingers, pulsating with Laurent’s blood, and when he started pumping it didn’t take long at all until Laurent was coming all over his hand, clamping down on his cock, sighing softly.

Damen closed his eyes. He was floating, among ragged breaths and the sound of flesh, the closeness of their bodies and the warmth of Laurent beneath him, around him. He felt coiled, his entire body tense with want and frustration and need, and when he came it was with a long shudder and a sensation like sparks, that washed through him and left him boneless.

Once it was over Damen let himself fall back among all those soft cloths, pliant and stupidly sated, like floating on sea mist. Laurent, red with exertion and embarrassment, covered in sweat and stained with come, jumped immediately away after throwing Damen a handkerchief with an expression of distaste. Damen watched him rise and walk away as if trying to affix the image into his mind. There was come dripping along Laurent’s leg with every step; that had been him. He couldn’t stop staring at it.

When Laurent returned he was freshened and newly pale, and was very careful not to look at Damen more than he absolutely had to.

“I won’t have further need of you for the night.” Laurent’s hair looked like had just been combed. Along with his prissy bedshirt and bare legs, it made him look in need of more debauching. It was a pity that he had to open his mouth.

“You can leave,” said Laurent, an imperious command. It was faintly amusing, and Damen’s good mood had him going along with it with barely a hint of annoyance. When he stood up, Laurent unconsciously turned his face away, and Damen almost wanted to laugh.

He said, indulgent, “If you don’t need anything else.”

“I told you I don’t.”

They’d gotten close, Laurent in crisp linen and Damen with sweat drying on his skin. For all of Vere’s reputation for delicate intrigue, Laurent could be quite transparent at times. Damen watched him, frustrated and amused, with rising anticipation for things to come

“For the night?”

He watched Laurent’s hands fiddle with the cloth at his hips, smoothing it down. Then, “For the night.”

That was as good as a promise. There would be other nights, tomorrow and the day after and all those to come, on the road, reciprocal frustration giving way to lust. Popular wisdom had it that there was a certain attraction to be found in animosity, mutual pleasure in the midst of deep-seated dislike. Damen, born a prince, and well-loved, never had cause to experience that for himself, but, with Laurent, he thought he understood.

He nodded, once. Laurent missed it; he was staring down at his body and trying to hide it. Damen caught his eyes, and neither of them spoke. Then he turned and made for his bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say that Laurent is The Most Awkward half of any OTP I have ever OTP-ed, and while “I’m gonna to write E-rated ~enemies hate sex!! In _canon_!!”’ sounded very fun on paper, in practice I had to rewrite this chapter about six times to get the tone right. Please take it away from me.


	3. Nesson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up: this chapter includes implications of canon-typical content that might potentially be upsetting. There’s also power fantasies all over the place, and overall I would say it’s mildly kinky, maybe? If you believe it necessary, please see endnotes for content warnings.

The day Laurent fought Govart in an impressive display of skill then cast him off, broken and bleeding, with a dismissive wave of his fine wrist was also the day Damen decided he should think long and hard about what the hell he was doing.

He couldn’t stop replaying the duel in his mind. His own reactions had him confused: the sudden burst of appreciative admiration; the unexpected twinge of regret and fear, not of Laurent but for him; the renewed surge of arousal he’d felt burning in his veins. He wanted Laurent more than ever, he’d begun to find qualities in him, and he was glad Laurent was unharmed. All of this was unacceptable.

Laurent was already dangerous enough without naked steel in his hand. His caustic tongue, his maze of a mind, and the loyalty he somehow commended from his men were all weapons in Laurent’s arsenal. The discovery that he was – _more_ than Damen had expected should have him worried, not intrigued beyond measure.

It was, then, almost a relief that he managed to insult Laurent before the evening even started. Laurent, when irked, turned haughty and acidic. He would send Damen away soon, and there would be no lingering looks over maps, no teasing remarks delivered in a conversational voice, no wandering gaze fixed on Laurent’s lips and his throat as he drunk from his water goblet. Damen would find himself halfway through the night unfulfilled and alone, and infinitely better off for it.

But the curt dismissal he’d been expecting never came. Instead they looked at lists and strategies, and Laurent made a series of notes in impeccable handwriting to show Jord in the white hours of dawn. After all of this, Damen found himself on the receiving end of a knowing look.

Laurent said, “Want to know what I am thinking?”

In the last week, Damen had come to recognize that tone. This was Laurent’s opening move.

Laurent, when he wanted Damen to fuck him, always took upon a carefully expectant air. It was a stark difference from the times he wanted Damen to do any other kind of less pleasant duties, when he just demanded and waited for his orders to be followed. Laurent in the bedroom would get an appraising look; he would say, always very mildly, something about Damen’s pallet looking dreadfully uncomfortable, or how Damen had been polishing his boots long enough. Just last night, he’d said ‘Come over here and put your cock in me’, and Damen, who hadn’t been expecting it, had let Laurent’s gauntlet fall to the ground as a burst of heat ran up his neck.

It went the same way every night: Laurent would say something and then he would look at Damen, searchingly, waiting for Damen to react. Damen always went to him and Laurent still never properly _asked_ , anyway; but Damen knew, as surely as he knew his own name, that if he were to stay where he was Laurent would go to bed alone, and not demand anything further from him for the night.

Laurent’s little ritual unnerved him. It reminded Damen of how he had been with his own slaves, and it made him feel as though he’d fallen short. In Akielos, he’d always made sure to be generous; took pride in it, even. He would coax and pet and ask what his favourites liked, and feel good about his own munificence, but there had always been the silent understanding that he would never be refused.

Damen did not like that Laurent was making him doubt himself. He liked it even less when he remembered the times Laurent hadn’t been overly concerned with Damen’s wants when he’d been thrown in the ring to get fucked or brought to orgasm for entertainment. It unsettled Damen that, if Laurent possessed such sensibilities, he hadn’t displayed them earlier, when it had really mattered. It annoyed him that Laurent, of all people, was the one making him reconsider his own actions.

All of this went through Damen’s mind in the moment it took for Laurent to raise one pale eyebrow, because he already spent the better part of the day bothered by how much Laurent affected him. He couldn’t seem to get Laurent out of his head.

Damen thought about staying where he was. Laurent would snort and go to sleep, and be crankier in the morning, and leave him alone.

Instead, Damen went along with it. “What are you thinking?”

“I am thinking,” said Laurent. “That earlier today, you liked watching me duel Govart. I think you liked it so much that had I told you to come kneel at my feet and suck my cock there and then, in front of the whole troop, you would have done it.”

His mouth went dry. That was a complete exaggeration, and far from how Damen himself would have put it. It was it, regardless – not untrue.

He said, “Are you asking me to do that now?”

They were still sitting at the table, notes and maps spread out between them. Damen’s hands were fisted into the stiff material of his uniform trousers. Laurent’s chair was inclined, his posture relaxed. “No, I,” he said. “No. We’re going to bed.”

They went. Laurent’s bed in the keep was a luxurious, overlarge four-poster that still was a far cry from the draped monstrosity in the Regent’s rooms in Chastillon. Laurent, unexpectedly, began undoing his own laces before he’d even risen from the table and gestured for Damen to see to his own clothes first.

Laurent’s leathers were tighter and more elaborate, but Damen had still very little practice; they were done in about the same time. Laurent had Damen turn off precisely the requested number of lanterns – all but two – while he flung himself down on the mattress, kicking away the bedcovers. He was fully aroused, more so than Damen, his cock hard and reddened.

Laurent said, “Two days ago, I was thinking the same thing.”

He had lost him. Laurent’s mind went like a whirlwind, and his careful composure made it even harder to follow the pattern of his thoughts.

“What do you mean?”

“Two days ago.” Laurent reached for him and Damen, obligingly, went. He found himself pulled half on top of Laurent, half on the soft mattress. It was deceptively comfortable.

“You fought Orlant then.” Laurent’s voice was low. Damen remembered an expressionless gaze, the way Laurent had gone pink when he’d looked him up and down. It was the first time he’d made Laurent flush outside of the bedroom. “I watched you.”

“You didn’t look too impressed.”

“I told you,” said Laurent. “You are better than I am. And I am very, very good.”

Two days ago, Damen hadn’t thought much of Laurent’s remarks. He had found his words amusing: of course he would be better than Laurent. Having seen Laurent fight now, he knew he would find beating Laurent a challenge. Given a few more years, the right terrain, and a stroke of luck, he might even risk losing.

“And so?”

“I thought, I can usually protect myself.” Laurent had turned his head Damen’s way, but he wasn’t looking at him so much as looking through him, eyes trailed some place faraway. “I couldn’t protect myself from you.”

That was patently ridiculous, for more reasons than Damen could count.

“You have an entire troop at your command.”

“I do,” Laurent agreed. “None of them are in here now.”

He thought he still didn’t understand, but he was beginning to. Laurent said, “In my bedroom, the – when those men came to kill me. You grabbed my wrist. You could grab my wrists now, at any time, and pin me down, and I couldn’t really do much, could I.”

Damen opened his mouth, trying to form the right words.

“I know, you wouldn’t,” said Laurent. Damen closed his mouth. Laurent’s voice had lost his strange quality and was back to his usual cool manner. “You are as pure as freshly fallen snow, the one honest barbarian in wicked Vere. And I have an entire troop at my command,” he said. “Orlant’s just waiting for an excuse to rip you to pieces.”

Laurent said, “I could be wicked if I wanted. Suck my cock in front of the whole troop? I could have two men hold you down if I wanted to fuck your mouth. You’d be made to kneel for me. Remember when I made you kiss my boot?”

He had sat up on his knees and now looked down at Damen, blue eyes roaming all over his body. There were red marks on Laurent’s thighs and arms and chest from the intricate embossing on his riding leathers, and purple marks on his hip and neck and collarbone from Damen’s mouth, just last night. He was a far cry from the distant perfection of marble that he’d been the first time Damen had met him.

He said, “I could do worse. I’d press my boot to your cock as I have you kneeling and I think – I’d make you come like that, like a beast. And then I’d make you lap it up.”

It was just filth, Damen thought. Laurent would never. His cock stirred.

Laurent saw that, had been waiting for it. He took Damen’s cock in his hand, working him, leaned down to speak into Damen’s ear. “Do you like the idea of being brought to heel?”

Back home, to have someone speak to him this way would have been unthinkable. And later, when he’d found himself in Arles with cuffs on his wrists, it hadn’t been about sex; just Laurent tormenting him, trying to pay him back for all he thought he had suffered at Akielon hands. But now – things were different. Now he was in Laurent’s bed, and Laurent was saying things like these as he teased at Damen’s cock with the fingers of one refined hand. He had sword calluses; Damen should have known, before today, that Laurent could fight.

Laurent’s words conveyed all sorts of impossible images, scenes that would never happen, and Damen knew he would fight tooth and nail if he were ever to be put in such a position. But in the half-darkness, in the privacy of his own mind, he could admit to himself that he liked Laurent’s commanding air, his self-possession, the unspoken expectancy that he would be obeyed in all things. He thought, perhaps, if it were the two of them in Laurent’s bedroom or his tent, or almost anywhere else, and if Laurent ordered him to go to his knees with clear-eyed arrogance, Damen might even do it. The thought made his head spin.

Damen’s breath hitched. Laurent, above him, smiled into the crook of his neck. “I think it makes you hot, that I have you in my power.”

The press of Laurent’s lips on his skin burned like a brand of ownership. Laurent kept stroking Damen’s cock, almost idly, as he spoke. “And I bet you hate what I do to you. I bet you went your entire life never questioning a single thing, and now you look at me, and you don’t know what you want anymore.”

Then Laurent pulled back, looked him in the eye. “You could make me pay for it.”

“You could…” That Damen hadn’t replied didn’t seem to deter him. Damen wasn’t sure he could speak, dazed as he was, the slow rhythm of Laurent’s hand and his soft words. “You could do things to me,” Laurent said. “Nobody else is in here. You could do whatever you wanted.”

Laurent’s eyes were very dark, his pupils wide. “You.” He said. “Could hold my wrists and pin me down. And fuck me. I couldn’t really do a thing.”

Damen, tentatively, rolled on his flank. Laurent went easily; eyes heavy, jaw slacked, he disentangled himself from Damen and let his hands fall down on the sheets next to his head.

“Better,” he said.

He was breathing shallowly, from his mouth. Damen, for his part... He hesitated. He was aroused, certainly. He’d been wanting to put his hands on Laurent all day. He liked the placement of Laurent’s hands, spread out at the sides of his head in surrender. But there was something, here, that left him apprehensive. He wasn’t sure if he could. Even Laurent; perhaps not especially Laurent.

Damen said, “Will you,” and then he stopped. He didn’t know where to go from here, how to put his words into thoughts properly.

“I’m not going to struggle,” said Laurent, and Damen let go of a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. “I wouldn’t – I’d want it, deep down. And I wouldn’t ever – I wouldn’t make any noises. Can you imagine? Everyone’d come running.”

Damen, who’d half-thought he’d be requested to play the despicable barbarian conjured from the depths of Laurent’s absurd imagination, did not ask Laurent what any of this meant. He breathed through his mouth and he said, “All right.”

“All right,” Laurent said, and then he rolled around so that he was on his stomach. “You can touch me some, if you like. Leave marks. Just, don’t touch my cock.” His voice had turned rough. He had parted his thighs, raised his hips invitingly, all of him for Damen to touch.

“Don’t touch my cock,” Laurent said, again, in a flurry of broken breaths. “I’m not. I shouldn’t – You’re not to make me come. Just.”

He’d closed his eyes, face pressed into the mattress. He looked, all of a sudden, younger.

Laurent was impatient as Damen eased into him, every trace of his discipline gone. He seemed to have forgotten that they had drills in the morning, all day in the saddle, just as they’d planned together. Damen had three oiled fingers inside Laurent’s body when Laurent twisted his neck to look at him. “If we keep fucking every night, you won’t even need to do this by the time we get to the border. You could just,” he said, “slide right in.” And he let his head fall back into the sheets, overwhelmed.

When Damen fucked into him Laurent shut his eyes even tighter and let out a long, slow moan.

“Like this?” Damen asked. The length of his body was pressed over Laurent’s. He had his face into Laurent’s half-turned nape, his mouth on Laurent’s neck, close enough to feel every breath.

“Tighter,” Laurent said, and it took Damen a moment or two to realise that he meant the grip of his hands around Laurent’s wrists. Earlier today he’d seen what those wrists could do, all that nimble swordwork. He adjusted his hold a fraction, and Laurent gave a small noise of assent.

Then, he fell quiet.

Damen thrust into him, deep and steady, and Laurent didn’t say a word. The silence was odd, but he found he liked the feeling of being so closely fitted against each other, from shoulder to hip, even their arms intertwined.

He fucked hard and fast. He thought Laurent might prefer it, in the mood he was in. It was Damen’s usual preference when he went to bed with fellow warriors, gladiators whose showings in the arena let him hot and wanting, much like Laurent had today. He thought about Laurent, so agile on his feet, Laurent’s unwavering confidence, and he slammed into him with all the strength of his back and his tights. He thought about Laurent in Arles, holding the golden leash, and adjusted his grip around Laurent’s wrists.

Laurent remained still. Laurent’s hands were balled into closed fists and his body was so tense that Damen might have worried he wasn’t enjoying this, lost in whatever dark fantasy he’d fabricated, if not for the way Laurent’s mouth was moving, lips parted around a constant stream of furious nonsense whispered hotly against the pillow. At times he trembled under Damen’s body, move his arms or his hips just the barest amount. At one point he sighed softly and arched back to take him in deeper, and Damen thought of lean muscles rippling under smooth skin, and felt a sudden, desperate need to trace the length of Laurent’s back with his palms.

He kept his hands where they were. The gentle feeling of slick warmth and tight pressure had given way to the frantic build-up of pleasure, and he took all of it like a man starving. He came with a full-body shudder and a groan half-bitten into the back of Laurent’s neck, then rolled on his back, enjoying the lassitude of the aftermath.

When he came back to himself, Laurent still hadn’t moved.

Damen hesitated. Then, slowly, he put one hand on Laurent’s shoulder, all the while waiting for a rebuff that did not come. Laurent did not move to slap his hand away, as he’d thought he might. He leaned into the touch, even, just slightly, and Damen felt a spike of something that was much like concern.

He wanted to call Laurent’s name, shake his shoulder and get any sort of reaction, but he didn’t. Instead, he cleared his throat and he said. “Your Highness?”

That seemed to do the job, remind Laurent who they were and where they stood. He turned to pin Damen in place with a pointed look, from under lashes that were perhaps heavier than usual, pearled with water.

Laurent blinked the tears away and it was as if they’d never been there.

He said, “Not bad.”

Damen’s hand was still on Laurent’s shoulder, and Laurent reached for it and took it between his own, turning it around, as if weighing it. He saw Laurent caress the gold at his wrist, and he thought: in the morning, he would lace Laurent’s sleeves around bruises shaped like Damen’s fingers.

Laurent said, “Put your mouth on me.”

Laurent, Damen remembered, hadn’t come; and yet he had been wanting, more than Damen could ever recall seeing him. Laurent’s cock was full and leaking, looking almost painful. Laurent’s own eyes were trailed on the ceiling, his head thrown back over the pillow. In a strange, youthful voice, he said. “Please.”

The first time Damen had done this for Laurent he had found him spooked out of his mind, all coiled tension and jittery nerves. He remembered how it’d taken effort to rouse him, that his jaw and throat had ached, and that he had found it so intriguing he’d hardly cared.

Now, it seemed as though most of Laurent’s skittishness had been fucked out of him. He lay in a pose that was almost natural, with one arm folded back behind his head, and he’d loosened enough that he’d brought his other hand to trace the shape of Damen’s neck, his upper shoulder. The touch was feather-light.

Damen breathed around Laurent’s cock and thought of all the obscenities streaming from Laurent’s pink lips. He freed his mouth just enough to say, “Put your hand in my hair.”

Laurent laughed at that; a low, sardonic sound. “I’m not going to able to deliver on everything I say, I fear,” he said, and Damen felt how his body went rigid all of a sudden, the air in the room changing to a different kind of tension.

He had his thumb on Laurent’s hip, rubbing circles with the soft pressure he’d learned Laurent preferred. “I gave you what you wanted.”

“Yes,” said Laurent. “And what a burden it was for you.” But he put his hand where he’d been asked; experimentally at first, treading gently, then gave a sharp tug.

“Yes,” Damen echoed. Laurent’s touch was like fire. He licked along Laurent’s cock, then swallowed down on it, as deep as he could manage. It wasn’t as much as he’d have liked. He felt pressure in his throat, a prickling in his eyes, and rising frustration that he couldn’t – that he couldn’t _yet_ – take all of Laurent like this, make him groan and shake, and cry out and forget himself.

He pulled back, for air, and for some finer work, with the flat of his tongue and his hand, and the warm suction of his mouth. He flickered his tongue against the tip of Laurent’s cock and felt him tremble. Damen sucked there lightly, between his parted lips, almost like a kiss, then swirled his tongue around the head, licking a path down along the sensitive underside. He pressed his tongue to the spot near the base that had Laurent exhale loudly, moan in his throat before he could get himself under control.

Then, with his hand on Laurent’s thigh, keeping him there, he gave a long lick across the width of Laurent’s sac. He was rewarded with a sudden pull to his hair, and Damen let out a groan at the sharp pleasure of it. He did it again, swirling his tongue over the sensitive skin of Laurent’s balls, sucking there slowly, before drawing one gently inside his mouth.

Laurent was making sounds now, low stifled moans, and his leg was trembling minutely under Damen’s touch. He pulled back and licked his way up again, flickered his tongue against the underside of the head. Then he tried again, held Laurent’s cock with his hand and took it into his mouth, deeper this time, and he still wanted more.

“You don’t,” said Laurent. “Have to.” His voice was even, but his muscles were trembling with the minute spasms of imminent release.

“You don’t have to do – that,” he said, again, but he was gripping at Damen’s hair because Damen told him to, and Damen ignored him and angled his neck so he could – he chocked, some, and he tasted salt when Laurent came with a sound of shocked pleasure.

When he came up, sputtering a bit, Laurent’s face was flaming red. But he met Damen’s eyes with a calm look, and said, “For a pleasure slave, you’ve really poor skills when it comes to swallowing.”

Damen said, “You’re blushing.”

He gathered his discarded clothes and made for his own bedding, considering all the while whether he should risk Laurent’s biting commentary and open the window to air the room, with Jord due very early before dawn.

Laurent, who had something of a considerate streak at times, if very little awareness of when to best employ it, had poured him a cup of water.

“Thank you,” Laurent said, as Damen drank. It was very low, and he almost didn’t hear it. With some other lover, it might have been teasing. With Laurent, in the right tone of voice and the wrong kind of mood, it might have been meant to be degrading. But he thought of Laurent’s soft surprise as he’d come, and he finished the water, and he did Laurent the courtesy of pretending he hadn’t heard a thing.

In the end he did open the window, welcoming the breeze to clear his overheated body, his lust-addled mind. Then looked to the courtyard down in the far darkness, and thought of Laurent staring up into the distance at something he could not see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content warnings** : chapter has Laurent using sex to work through issues through a fantasy scenario of being physically overpowered. Both parties get off on it and the underlying trauma isn’t made explicit, because it’s Damen’s POV and he doesn’t realize what’s going on. The scenario is set up with a conversation beforehand and lasts all through the penetrative sex scene. Immediately before that there’s some dirty talk that Laurent uses to rile Damen up, playing up their history and position relative to each other, and the ‘power dynamics’ tag definitely applies.


	4. The inn

Damen couldn’t stop looking at the earring.

Or rather, the way the earring framed Laurent’s face, casting azure drops on his fine skin that danced in the firelight. It did something to Laurent’s features, turning the sharp curve of his mouth into a seductive smile, his restrained manners to alluring sensuality. Damen stared, and the longer he kept his eyes on Laurent’s face the more his mouth grew dry.

Laurent was very aware of it. He’d set himself on the bench, half on Damen’s lap – _like a pet_ , uncomfortably close. “Try to look less shocked. Prouder.” Every time Laurent spoke, he leaned so close that Damen could feel Laurent’s breath ghosting over his lips with every word. “All these men wish they could be in your place right now.”

It was a new game, one Damen could have done without. He shifted on the bench, adjusting his legs, a little wider. “Do you think this is amusing?”

The innkeeper came back before Laurent could reply, solicitous and overly deferential, to tell His Lordship that his room would be readied soon and asking about dinner, carrying a small bowl filled with water and a wicker basket with freshly baked bread.

They placed their orders. Rather, Laurent placed their orders, not even bothering looking up and over Damen’s shoulder as he drawled a long list of necessities: hot water for the bath and a freshly scrubbed tub, venison seasoned with berries and chestnuts, and a specific vintage from Arran that went with it.

The innkeeper listened to all of it nodding intently, then looked to Damen. “My lord,” he said, as if to ask for confirmation. Laurent hissed low in his throat, like a cat.

“I told you what you need to know.” Laurent’s voice was stern and haughty. There was little difference between the cold arrogance of a Prince and that of an overpriced, spoiled pet. “Now leave us. We are busy.”

As if to demonstrate his words, Laurent’s hand, which had been resting on Damen’s thigh under the table, cupped his cock in a deliberate move.

Damen started. As soon as the innkeeper walked away he grabbed Laurent’s hand around the wrist, pulling it away. “What are you _doing_?”

“Attending to my master’s needs. As any pet worth his keep would do.” The way Laurent said it, golden brows arched, made very clear that he found Damen incredibly lacking in that regard. “I told you. Verisimilitude.”

“You can’t just,” Damen said. “You can’t. In public.”

“Don’t be prudish,” said Laurent. And then, “Are you going to release my hand?” He said all of this into Damen’s ear, so close that his earring was dangling in front of Damen’s nose, shimmering, hypnotic.

“What are you going to do if I release your hand?”

“I think you know what I’m going to do,” Laurent said. “Have you any strong objections?

Damen, stunned, loosened his hold around Laurent’s hand. Laurent placed it back on his thigh, over the heavy cloth of his nobleman’s clothing, but Damen felt the touch of it as if against bare skin.

“Well,” Laurent said. “Do you?”

Damen swallowed. “Do I what?”

“Want me to. I could. Everybody will know I got my hand on your cock under the table. They’ll watch,” said Laurent. “Then they will go home, and get off to it.”

The way Laurent spoke, with that voice, made even Veretian exhibitionism sound appealing. “Why would you…” Damen paused. There was no guessing why Laurent did anything. Laurent liked to talk, and he liked to shock. He wouldn’t do it, really, Damen thought, and so he said, “Yes.”

Laurent blinked. “Really,” he said. “ _You_.” The emphasis he placed on that word was a little insulting. “Well, you’re full of surprises.”

“Tell me.” Laurent began. He had one thigh thrown over Damen’s own, his leg folded at the knee, dangling slowly off the bench in the space between Damen’s spread thighs. He looked perfectly at ease. “Do you think we’ve made progress these past two weeks?”

There was a pause.

“The men,” said Laurent. “Do you think they’re working better together? Anyone I should get rid of?”

“You want to talk about the men,” Damen said. “ _Now_.” He said, “Is this another of those times when you talk and then you can’t deliver?”

The look Laurent turned on him made it clear that he wasn’t amused. “Answer my question.”

“Alright.” He really should have known better than letting Laurent get to him. Laurent would probably turn crimson if anybody ever caught him doing something halfway sexual. Now, if only he would back away from where he sat folded into Damen’s side, with his cheek creasing the cloth of Damen’s jacket at the shoulder. Laurent’s hand was still on his thigh

“They’re not bad,” he said. He gave Laurent the rundown, almost word for word the same things he’d said that morning, in the tent with Jord. Since Jord wasn’t here now, Damen added, “Jord’s improved a lot, too. You could tell he’d never captained so many men, when we started, but he did a great job. I’ve seen him studying heraldry with Aimeric, even.”

For some reason, that got Laurent to curl up his nose. “Heraldry. I’m sure that’s what he’s doing.” Then he shifted his weight on the bench, against Damen’s body, and pressed the smooth shaft of his boot down between Damen’s legs.

It wasn’t… Damen remained where he was. It was just pressure, it didn’t have to mean anything. Laurent could have done it by accident. He went very still.

Except Laurent didn’t do anything by accident, and the hand that had just been placed on Damen’s thigh had moved upwards to undo the laces at his crotch. He put the other on Damen’s shoulder.

“Try to look less stunned,” he said. The earring, dangling, glistened. “You’ll give us away.” He spoke very evenly. From the angle of his head, the languid pose of his fingers on Damen’s shoulder, he must have looked to all the other patrons as if he were whispering seductive nonsense into Damen’s ear. “You should act more relaxed. Satisfied. This is all yours. It’s your right to have this,” said Laurent. “Me. Whenever you wish it.”

All he could think about was Laurent’s voice, his words, Laurent’s hand. He felt himself harden under the cloth. Laurent was undoing the laces one-handed, Damen realised, and that alone made it worse. He’d moved even closer now, his warm body pressed comfortably into Damen’s chest. His hand was warm, too, when it found Damen’s cock inside his trousers, and Damen closed his eyes at the touch.

“No, don’t,” Laurent said. His grip was firm, a bit loose. “I want you to watch.” He said it in a whisper. Damen couldn’t hear the noises of the room around them anymore, couldn’t conceive of anything else besides Laurent pumping his cock in slow long strokes, Laurent’s breath on his skin as he spoke.

“There’s people staring. They’ll pretend they aren’t, if you look.” Laurent’s fingers traced the length of him, found the spot right above his balls that had Damen see yellow sparks over his closed lids. Laurent pressed down on it, once, two times. “Open your eyes,” he said. “I want you to see.”

Damen opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was Laurent’s face, placid and intent, the gleam of satisfaction when their eyes met. Beyond that, he saw the crowded tables of the inn, the men there casting looks their direction and quickly averting their gazes when Damen noticed them watching.

“They’re jealous,” said Laurent. “I told you. They all want to be you.” He pressed down into the slit. Instead of the pad of his thumb, he dug in with his nail, just hard enough to prickle, and Damen’s hips bucked over the bench at the sharp sensation of it. “Like that,” he said. “Look at me.”

Laurent didn’t like to be looked in the face during sex, Damen remembered, hazily, except he clearly wanted it now, staring down into Damen’s eyes with quiet complacency. Maybe it was that he was collected and still impeccably dressed, and Damen was dishevelled in front of him, bucking up into the friction of Laurent’s hand. It was slick now, because he was close, and his breath had gone erratic and it was all Damen could do to force himself to stay quiet, not to draw even more attention to themselves than they already had. He watched Laurent watch him, the curve of his lips and his darkened eyes. Laurent liked this. Maybe he liked the power.

“When we go upstairs,” Laurent said. “They’ll all watch us leave and think of all the ways you’re going to fuck me.”

Damen came like that, trembling into Laurent’s body in the middle of a crowded room of an inn in Vere, so unlike anything he could ever have imagined in any of his fantasies. Laurent made a pleased little sound at his loss of control, and pulled out a handkerchief from somewhere to catch the spill. The touch of silk against his sensitive cock made him shiver, and when Laurent pulled away he suddenly felt cold.

“There,” he heard. “We’re being very convincing.”

Laurent had crumpled up the dirty handkerchief into a ball, and Damen watched him stand up and go throw it into the fire as if he couldn’t make even more of a production of what he had just been doing. He moved with leisurely confidence, that earring swinging with every step, and every head in the room turned to watch him as he walked by.

When Laurent came back he sat himself down on the bench almost as close as he'd been earlier and made a production of washing his hands into the small clay bowl that had been placed in the middle of the table by the innkeeper earlier, probably with that exact purpose. _Veretians_.

Laurent looked back calmly. For once, it was Damen who couldn't quite meet his eyes. He’d done his laces back up hastily, and now he cleared his throat. “Do you want me,” he said. “To, uh.” Surely Laurent wouldn’t expect that of him. Or perhaps he might; this was Vere. Damen wasn’t sure he could do that, make Laurent come with people watching, although he was perhaps beginning to see the appeal of it, an entire room looking at Laurent and knowing they couldn’t touch him, that he belonged to someone else. The fantasy was enthralling.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Laurent. “You wouldn’t touch a pet like that in public.”

Laurent certainly seemed committed to his disguise. Was he feeling the weight of that earring, too, the same way Damen couldn’t stop staring at it? “You’re not, usually,” Damen said. He couldn’t help himself. “Like this.” He made a gesture, encompassing himself, and Laurent, and what had just passed between them.

Laurent’s lip curled up a bit. It wasn’t quite a smile. “Spoken like you think you know me,” he said. “If you must know, I’ve done this before.” Then he stilled.

Done what? Snuck away from his own men? Gotten somebody off in a secluded corner, in a room with other people? Put on gaudy jewels that shone in candlelight? Lauren didn’t specify. He’d gone rigid, face dark and back stiff, and then he visibly relaxed and gave Damen a long look from under his lashes. “I think I’ve done well enough for a reward,” he said. The look turned coquettish, pet-like, so unlike Laurent that Damen felt his head spin.

“Give me some coin.” He had gone back to normal, arrogant and cold, plenty amused at Damen’s reaction. “I’m going to play cards.”

Laurent got his coppers and his silvers back and he walked away, leaving Damen feeling strangely adrift. He ended up talking with a man named Charls, a cloth merchant who complimented Damen on what a catch his pet was.

“Yes,” Damen said. “He’s very good at what he does.”

Laurent didn’t come back when a tavern boy appeared with their dinner, either, and so Damen ate by himself the food that had been prepared to Laurent’s specifications, and washed it down with the wine that complemented it perfectly.

It much later when Laurent went back to the table, carrying a mug of wine that was much cheaper than the one Damen had been drinking. He set it on the table. “I learned a coin trick,” he said, and then. “Did you miss me?” He said it sweetly, like a threat.

He saw Laurent eyeing the food. Damen wondered if Laurent wanted to eat and, if yes, if he would take food from his fingers, for some more verisimilitude. He wasn’t sure how much verisimilitude he could take. He pictured Laurent waiting expectantly, then leaning forward and, like a bird in the nest, carefully plucking the offered bit of food with his teeth. A real pet might lick his master’s fingers clean, after, seductively, and smile prettily to demand more attention, more pampering. Laurent wouldn’t lower himself to any of that, not even to unsettle him, but perhaps he would circle Damen’s wrist after he fed him. Carefully, he would use a piece of tablecloth to clean Damen’s fingers and the palm of his hand, the space between his thumb and his forefinger.

Instead Laurent sat up on the table, next to Damen’s half-finished plate, and pushed it away. Damen looked up to meet eyes gleaming in quiet satisfaction.

Damen asked, “Are you having fun?”

“Aren’t you?” Laurent leaned forward, slowly, and the proximity of his body teased at him more than any elaborate production would have. He bent his neck so that his forehead brushed against Damen’s, and all Damen could see was blue.

“It’s late,” he said. “We should retire.”

Then he jumped off the table and walked off, not bothering to look over his shoulder to see if Damen would follow. Damen rose up from the bench slowly, cautious, and thought of all the things Laurent had said tonight, all that he’d done, and how he had absolutely no idea of what would come now. Laurent’s words played in his mind: _they’ll_ _watch us leave_ , _and think of all the ways you’re going to fuck me_. He followed Laurent up the stairs.

Their room was large, the wooden floorboards polished to a shine, and a fire was burning in the hearth. There was a man sitting on the only bed who went to his knees in front of Laurent and opened his mouth to speak with a heavy accent, strong with consonants that were not Veretian. Damen watched Laurent give orders with his usual brisk efficiency, no hint left of the flirtatious manners he’d put on downstairs, and then he watched him take out a heavy gold ring carefully from inside his jacket and hand it to the foreign messenger. The man bowed very low before retreating, slipping out of the door with hardly a sound.

“Well, it’s a good thing he waited,” said Laurent. “Imagine, all of this for nothing.”

The sneaking off, the brothel, the earring, that scene in the common room. “That would have been a shame. After all that effort.” He ignored the knowing look Laurent sent his way. “Are we–”

“I’m going to have a bath,” Laurent said, and that was all. He slipped out past the door and the room seemed to deflate slowly, emptied of his presence. Of late he’d been spending so much time in Laurent’s close proximity, day and night, that sometimes when he was gone Damen didn’t quite know what to do with himself.

He ended up downstairs again, knocking on the kitchen door and asking the cooks there for a platter, bread that wasn’t quite as warm now, cheeses and fruits. The request, at such a late hour, got the innkeeper to take notice of him. Was the room to his satisfaction? The water for the bath had been heated while His Lordship had been eating, and the tub had been scrubbed freshly clean that morning. The man did not ask why Damen was downstairs running his own errands when he should have been in his comfortable bed with the clean sheets fucking that haughty pet into the mattress. Damen walked back to the room, plate balanced in his hands, feeling restless. His boots stomped on the floorboards with a satisfying sound every step.

“There you are,” Laurent called out. He was still in the bath, his voice muffled by the connecting door. And then, “Aren’t you going to come in?”

He went in. The room was very small; the steam hit him first, humidity and heat, and then the sight of Laurent sitting in the wooden tub, his arms spread out to rest on the sides. His hair was wet, his cheeks rosy, and there were drops of water pooling over his collarbones. The rest of him was hidden to the sight.

“Well?” Laurent said, and Damen shut the door behind him and leaned on the doorjamb to unlace his boots. In Akielos, it would take him all but a moment to kick off his sandals. In Akielos, someone else would kneel on wet marble to do it for him. The floor was tiled, foggy with vapour, and Damen walked the short length of the room to the low bench in the corner where Laurent’s clothes had been piled, neatly folded. He put down the boots. Then, haltingly, conscious of Laurent’s eyes on him, he began unlacing his jacket.

Earlier, as the innkeeper went on about his best room with the private bath, the only one in Nesson-Eloy, Damen had wondered: what if they’d used the shared baths instead? Would Laurent have kept up his act in there, too, undressed him, run his hands all over? Instead, they were alone. Damen hadn’t expected to be called in, had no idea of what was going to happen. He tried to remember the last time he’d been in a bath with Laurent, to clear his head, but all he could see was here and now, water dripping slowly from Laurent’s hair down to his shoulders.

His fingers stumbled on the lacing at his waist. Laurent had given him clothes fit for a lord, embroidered and intricate; to put the jacket on, Damen had loosely closed it up then tugged it over his head, and tightened some of the laces with the help of a mirror. Now, he tried to remember how he’d done it earlier. Which string to pull on first? There were small buttons running through the back of his sleeves, and what looked like ribbons. He turned his arm.

“Having troubles?”

Laurent’s voice was mild, his amusement obvious. “Those are ornamental. That one,” he pointed to one of the strings running through the side of the jacket, indistinguishable from the others. “Undo that knot.” Then he said, “That one, too.”

With Laurent’s instructions, it didn’t seem quite as impossible to get out of that thing. Then he got to the sleeves, rigid with brocade and with buttons half the size of his nails, and Damen seriously contemplated whether he’d be better off slashing those open with a knife. He couldn’t just tug it off, not with the gold cuffs, and the realization had him glaring Laurent’s direction

“Here.” Laurent rose up to his knees in a splash of water, gesturing impatiently. “Or you’ll be there all night.”

He reached out and Damen advanced slowly, let Laurent encircle his forearm with damp fingers, loosening the knots there with sure gestures. One arm, and the other, and then Laurent leaned forward even more to push the jacket off his shoulders. Damen could see even more of him like this, the hollow of his sternum, the lines of his abdomen under the clear water.

“There,” said Laurent, with the same low satisfied tone he’d used when he’d made Damen come into his hand. Then he sat back down. “I trust you’ll be able to manage the rest yourself.”

“And if I couldn’t?”

Damen was feeling daring. He regarded Laurent with his most insouciant look and saw his lips curl. “Unfortunately for you,” said Laurent. “There’s only so far I am willing to take our little game.” He’d taken off the earring, Damen noticed, and the pale skin of his throat glistened with stray drops where earlier there had been the refracted gleam of sapphires.

“That’s a pity,” Damen said, frankly. He had a brief fantasy of Laurent undressing him, string by string, slow and sensual among vapour and candlelight. Then his eyes rested on Laurent’s unadorned face, his bare neck, the sensitive spot right under his jaw. If he pressed there with his lips Laurent would fold into it, and shiver.

He managed the rest of his clothes quickly; naked, he walked across the tiles and went to wash. Laurent wasn’t looking. Rather deliberately he’d turned his head to rest against the side of the tub, and his eyes were closed. Damen scrubbed himself quickly then rinsed with the ladle and the warm water in the bucket and massaged into his scalp the sweet-smelling poultice Veretians used on the hair.

This time he caught Laurent’s gaze on him when he turned to look, clear-eyed, staring up and down with frank appraisal. “A better look on you than those clothes,” he said, and Damen chocked out an unexpected laugh.

He went to soak into the water, side by side with Laurent, who moved away just slightly when he went in so their bodies would not touch. The tub wasn’t very big, and the way Laurent held himself plastered to one side of it couldn’t be comfortable. Damen didn’t comment on it. Eventually, because one of them had to, Damen dropped his shoulders and let himself relax, sliding down deeper in a small splash of water, eyes falling closed.

It felt good. The warm water was soothing, relieving aches he’d forgotten about, fifteen days of hard drills and weeks of worries. He hadn’t had a bath like this, a real bath, to cleanse and to relax, since home, and there it had been – he didn’t want to think about it. In Ios the tub had been marble, large enough for half a dozen men to sink in comfortably. On that last day a dead slave would have washed him, and afterwards he must have fucked her because that was what one did with slaves, but now Damen found that he couldn’t remember the encounter, or even who the slave had been. He’d had plenty, as it suited his rank, and many of them had resembled each other to an extent. Resembled Laurent, as much as it was possible in Akielos.

Would he fuck Laurent here, now, among splashes of water? Earlier, when Laurent had called him in, Damen had walked into the room expecting sex. Perhaps Laurent might have taken him in hand again, his fist slick with soap, and Damen would have pressed Laurent’s lithe body to the foggy wall tiles and pushed one thigh up and between his legs. He pictured Laurent, eyes closed, writhing against him, coming undone with one of those soft surprised gasps. But Laurent hadn’t moved, wasn’t moving now, still as a statue.

Damen thought – he would lean in, push the damp hair at Laurent’s temple up and behind his ear, and press his mouth to Laurent’s neck to feel him shudder. He planned it out in his mind, down to Laurent’s minute reactions, and then he sat up straighter.

Laurent flinched.

It was a very small, very controlled flinch. Damen only caught it because he had been staring so intently. Laurent saw him noticing; he went very rigid, lips drawing into a tight line, and he looked away.

“It’s.” Laurent began, then stopped. “The water is getting cold,” he went on, speaking a little too fast, moving just as quickly, up to his feet and over the edge of the tub. Their bodies touched as he did so, Laurent’s chest brushing briefly against Damen’s drawn up knee, and Damen felt the strange impulse to apologize for the contact. He watched Laurent reach for a towel and wrap it not at his waist but right under his arms as if to shield his body from the sight.

Then he watched him leave, and there was none of the confidence in his steps that he’d displayed down in the common room, playing at being someone else. The door slammed shut and Damen tried to find that peace again, closing his eyes and leaning back and trying to relax, but he found that he didn’t want to spend any more time in that lukewarm water surrounded by memories of the past. He stood up himself and went to dry up; the tiles were slippery under his feet, and he spent some time drawing idle circles into the steam clinging to the walls. Then he emptied the tub, dragging it to the corner and inclining it into the drain, and watched the water swirl as it flowed out to go splash down in the alley below.

When he judged that enough time had passed, he pushed the door open and went into the room, carrying his clothes along with Laurent’s, who’d forgotten them behind in his rush. Damen saw that Laurent had dragged the wooden chest next to the fire and now sat on it, towel pooling down at his waist, his back bare. On his knees was the plate Damen had carried up from the kitchens; half the bread and most of the cheese were gone, and he seemed to have begun with the fruit.

Silently, Damen laid down the stack of folded clothes next to Laurent’s thigh. Laurent blinked up at him. “Thank you,” he said. And then he offered, “Cherry?”

It was Damen’s turn to blink. “All right.”

He sat down on the chest, on Laurent’s other side, conscious of the scarce inches separating their bodies, the shape of Laurent’s hips under the towel. Damen reached out to take one of the cherries, dark and ripe, and found it sweet and full with juice. When swallowed the pit, as it was his habit, he caught Laurent throwing him an unimpressed look out the corner of his eye.

“That’s disgusting,” he said. Laurent had a small stack of pits piled up on one side of his platter, all cleaned very neatly. His hand hovered above the remaining fruits, picking out the palest one, leaving the ripest cherries for last. Laurent’s fingers, pale and slender, were thoroughly stained red with juice; he brought them up to his mouth to lick away the drops, so that his lips were red, too.

Damen felt strangely at ease. Laurent was a surprisingly good listener when the mood struck him; he asked questions, and Damen found himself sharing stories of home, of Kastor and Jokaste in those twilight days, staring into the fire and letting his chest become lighter with every word.

Then Laurent, soft-spoken, absent-mindedly, said, “You remind me of my brother, sometimes,” and Damen felt the world blur slightly at the edges of his vision.

With studied ease, because he couldn’t bear it, he asked, “What about you?”

“Will I share stories of treacherous past lovers? I don’t think so.” Then, slowly, Laurent turned in his seat to face him. The platter swayed on his knees, and Laurent laid it down to the floor. He put one hand on Damen’s shoulder and Damen’s eyes were drawn to the line of Laurent’s arm, all the angles of his bare chest.

“You have a scar on your stomach.”

That took Damen by surprise. He followed the line of Laurent’s gaze down to his own abdomen, the faded line of Kastor’s sword. “It’s old,” said Damen, who didn’t want to think about Kastor any longer. “It’s – it was years ago.”

Laurent hummed, very softly. “This one.” His thumb had fallen down to trace the scar on his shoulder, Auguste’s mark. It had been under the collarbone, hardly a mortal wound, but his sword had fallen out his grip, and Damen had thought, _This is it, how I die_. Auguste had offered him his sword back and safe surrender if he wished, in deference to his young age. Damen, nineteen and bold, had taken the sword and refused the offer, and then he had killed him.

Now Laurent stroked with his finger over the scar, pressed down on it. In that soft voice, he said, “This looks like it hurt.”

Like hell, after the battle, from all the exertion he’d put on it. “Yes.” The surgeons had wanted to bind it, after, but appearances were important, and Damen had kept his armour on and his arm loose at his side until they’d been out of Delpha. “I couldn’t hold a sword for months, after,” he said. “It was very well-tended to, but…”

“Good,” Laurent said, a bit nonsensically. The light of the fire tinged his pale skin in shades of red. Damen leaned in like he’d pictured doing in the bath, and the hair at Laurent’s temple was damp and soft under his hand.

Laurent didn’t flinch, this time. He leaned into it, his hand still tracing aimless paths on Damen’s shoulder, and Damen breathed out into the warm pulse of Laurent’s neck. “Do you want to go to bed?”

He felt Laurent’s fingers dig into his scar, and then he felt him nod. It was a simple thing to slide in even closer, to untie that towel and run his hand over the crease of Laurent’s hip, the smoothness of his back, all of him revealed to the touch. It was Laurent who hauled him up to his feet, tugged his trousers down past his hips with a firm pull so that they were skin to skin. Damen scraped his teeth along the edge of Laurent’s jaw, just to hear his breath hitch, and Laurent’s fingers wrapped around the back of his neck, keeping him there.

They stumbled to the bed, together, their bodies folded into one another. They fit well like this. Laurent was on top of him, smelling like clear herbal soap and firewood, and then he thrust down into him, pressing them even closer together. Damen exhaled at the feeling of it, the hard length of Laurent’s cock dragging against his own. Laurent’s mouth was hot over his throat, working over the pulse of his heartbeat with lips and tongue.

“That’s good,” he said, coaxing. He bucked up against Laurent and threw his head back, eyes closed. “You – yes, like that.” He couldn’t keep it inside; Laurent had to know this, had to know how good it felt. The position, Laurent on his lap like this, was reminiscent of how they’d been downstairs. Laurent had been magnetic. He hadn’t been able to tear his eyes off him.

Damen licked along the ridge of Laurent’s collarbone, mouthed at the soft hollow there at the base of his throat. He eased into the rhythm, drawing him in. Laurent’s breath hitched when Damen pressed up against him, tilting his hips, shifting his weight to find the best angle to roll up into Laurent and hear him gasp. Damen caught a hazy impression of unfocused blue eyes, lips wet and slightly parted, and he bent his head to mouth a path across Laurent’s shoulder, then down to the sensitive circle of one pebbled nipple.

The air was hot, feverish. Damen savoured the feeling of Laurent rubbing up against him, trailing dampness over his skin, and then he felt Laurent’s hand slide in the space between their bodies and take them both in hand. That was – Laurent’s fingers, wrapped around his cock. Laurent working him, both their cocks together, slick with pre-come. He felt his whole body clench at that, warm arousal tight in his belly, and it wasn’t long at all before he came into Laurent’s grip, surging up against him, arms wrapped around his shoulders to keep him close.

Laurent didn’t let go. He kept pumping him, his hand wet with come, wringing every last drop out of him until the stimulation turned almost painful. He breathed into the curve of Laurent’s shoulder and found that he was rambling, low murmurs, _That’s good, like that_ , and it was better than it had been earlier, so much better because now they were doing this together.

Laurent’s orgasm came on him slowly, like rippling waves. Damen felt it all against him, the clenching of Laurent’s body and the minute relaxation, the hot spurt of come against his stomach, that small strangled gasp. Neither of them moved, at first, until Laurent pushed him down on the bed and disentangled himself slowly, looking around a bit dazed. He was panting. Damen watched the rise and fall of his chest, then down to the muscles of his abdomen, the mess staining him that they’d both made. When Laurent turned around Damen’s eyes fixated, for some reason, on the curve of his calves, the wide stance of his feet on the wooden floor.

Laurent wiped himself down with the discarded towel that had ended up on the floor, then crumpled it up into a ball and threw it at Damen’s head. Damen, stunned and lazy with sex, didn’t quite manage to catch it in time before it splayed open against his chest.

“Tell me something.”

Laurent went back to sit on the bed, and the mattress dipped under his weight. “Your lady, in Akielos. The one who discarded you for a throne.” That it perhaps wasn’t the time to ask such questions didn’t seem to occur to Laurent. He spoke as if he were pondering some theoretical problem, with polite interest. “Do you miss her?”

“I don’t…” Damen meant to say he didn’t know. He’d hardly had time to think about home since he’d been taken to Vere; all he knew was that he missed the simplicity of Akielos, the life he’d had, the person he’d been there. Or perhaps that wasn’t wholly true. There were things he now wished could have been different, other things that he would never get back. Damen tried not to think of his father. Instead, he thought of Jokaste: she had been beautiful and sharp and exciting, and having her had been a thrill. But then the ending had come, so abrupt.

“I don’t,” he said, again.

“All right. I was curious,” said Laurent, even though Damen hadn’t asked. Then he cast one of those imperious looks down the length of Damen’s body. “If you don’t clean up, you’re sleeping on the floor.”

Damen, who had expected to sleep on the floor regardless, only stared. Laurent began pulling back the covers from one side of the bed. It wasn’t a large bed at all, just like the tub in the bath hadn’t been. It would be impossible to lie there together and not touch.

“Unless you’d like to stay there and look at me,” Laurent said. “That works, too.”

When he got under the covers, the warmth of Laurent’s body was only inches away. If he rolled over in his sleep, if he moved only slightly, they would be pressed together. Damen closed his eyes, held very still, and waited to fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say, Charls is going to get a brain freeze when he realizes :')


	5. The balcony

When Damen woke, all was still. The last of the fire was crackling in the hearth and, outside, he could hear the call of a nightjar. He opened his eyes to find that he’d shifted in his sleep, and his forehead rested only a hairsbreadth away from Laurent’s shoulder. Their legs were touching at the thigh, and the mattress had gone warm under their bodies. It was pleasant, Damen thought. He could easily forget himself in all of this.

Then he heard the noises.

Laurent came awake easily under his hand; he blinked in surprise, shaking away sleep.

“We have to leave,” Damen began, and then they heard it again: shouts down in the street, fists pounding against wood, the feeble voice of the innkeeper asking who was at the door, so early before dawn. Laurent sat up immediately on the bed.

“Get dressed,” said Laurent, and then, “Hurry,” as if the two didn’t directly contradict one another. Damen laced his boots carefully and did up his trousers so they wouldn’t fall down while he was running, then threw on the rest of it haphazardly – flowing undershirt, long sleeved shirt, brocaded jacket, coat. Veretians wore a lot of layers.

There were booted footsteps coming up the stairs; not that way, then. Damen opened the window to the balcony and found it a dead end. Laurent was frowning, judging the distance to the next balcony and looking down to the street below.

In Akielos, one of the sports celebrated in the games was the long jump, made from a standing position. Damen did not excel in it as he did with wrestling, nor did he have weights in his hands to steady the landing, but he was confident that he could make it.

He jumped, and he landed. Laurent hesitated.

“Come on,” said Damen. He waited for Laurent to assess the length of the jump, the angles, the grips provided by the railing. “You can do it.”

“Shut up,” Laurent snapped. Eyes narrowed, he climbed over the balcony rails and bent his knees to make the jump, and Damen watched with cold fear gripping at his insides. Then Laurent leapt, and he stumbled, and Damen grabbed at him, fitting his hands over Laurent’s hips in a familiar hold.

Laurent looked up at him, pale hair bleached white in the darkness. Touching him calmed Damen’s frantic heartbeat down to something manageable, and he let himself draw in a breath, feel the brisk coolness of the night. Laurent was warm through his clothing, and solid and close, just as he had been asleep in the bed, mere minutes ago.

Then Laurent pushed him against the wall, slamming their bodies together as the shutter door opened behind them. They were chest to chest; Laurent hadn’t had time to do any of his laces, either, and Damen could feel the brush of Laurent’s skin, over his collarbones, where he would still bear the marks of Damen’s lips. He liked that Laurent had to throw his head back, white throat exposed, to look him in the eye.

Inside, the old man Volo had apparently made his way back to the bed. Laurent wouldn’t stop wiggling, craning his neck to look around. When he moved, his hip dug into the flesh of Damen’s thigh.

Damen closed his eyes. There were men in the inn, he thought, coming for them. It was dangerous; they could be hurt or die, even, any minute now. Laurent had almost died just moments ago because he was a reckless fool with no regard for consequences, but now he was very much alive, staring up at him, breathing hot air into Damen’s neck.

“Stop _moving_.”

“Why?” Laurent said. “This is exciting.” He said it in a warm press of lips. Then, purposefully, ground his hips against Damen’s.

Damen’s mouth closed around a choked gasp.

He was, without a doubt, aroused. He’d woken up with Laurent, naked, sleeping next to him; then there had been the rush of the jump, the excitement of danger. And now Laurent was making it worse.

“Are you mad?” His voice was hoarse. He could hear the sound of fucking coming from the open window. The house boy, who had pale hair and a pleasant enough face, was moaning shamelessly like Laurent never would. Laurent’s hand was in Damen’s hair, clutched around a fistful of curls at his nape the way Damen liked, and he was rocking into him slow and teasing.

“We should go up on the roof,” said Laurent, even as his hold kept them both in place. He was half-hard against Damen’s clothed cock and Damen realised distinctly that Laurent hadn’t had the time to do up all of his laces there, either. He could pull on a loose string and take him in hand, the warmest part of him, smooth to the touch.

Laurent’s nails scratched at his scalp, and then he couldn’t hold it in anymore. He groaned.

Laurent kissed him.

It was sudden, and it left him dizzy. Laurent’s lips parted over his mouth, hesitantly, soft and a bit dry, and Damen couldn’t think. He’d never kissed Laurent before; he’d had his lips and mouth and tongue on every part of his body except there. Kissing had always felt too sweet for them, too simple. Laurent, Damen had always thought, with his strange inhibitions, would never have allowed it.

Laurent was kissing him now. It was clumsy, the way Laurent often was when they tried something for the first time, before repetition and sheer stubbornness would hone his motions into refined smoothness. Laurent was a quick study, and Damen had come to relish those awkward new pleasures, knowing they would not last. Laurent’s tongue in his mouth was tentative and yielding. Damen put his hands on the sides of Laurent’s face and took control of the kiss, turning it deep.

When he pulled back he sucked on Laurent’s lip, like he’d longed to do, and felt Laurent’s hand tug at his hair. They were breathing heavily, faces still so close. Laurent’s eyes were liquid pools in the dark.

“Be quiet,” said Laurent. He was frowning slightly. “We should climb up.”

He was still speaking when the door to the bedroom was thrown open, and they heard the Regent’s hired men run inside with all the subtlety of a cavalry charge.

And then they heard them address the tavern prostitute as ‘Your Highness’, and Damen saw the stern lines of Laurent’s face melt into unbridled, hopeless mirth.

“You’re going to give us away,” he said. Laurent had put one hand in front of his mouth and was shaking, an open display of emotion unlike anything Damen had ever seen on him. There were little creases at the corner of Laurent’s eyes as he laughed, and if there had been light Damen knew he would have seen his cheeks turn pink, the way it always happened when they were in bed together.

Meanwhile, Volo’s bedroom had gotten as busy as the common room of an inn, two more men having joined the fray. They were, loudly, comparing Laurent’s looks to that of the house boy’s, the shade of their hair, their bedroom habits. When Volo recounted their card game Laurent snorted, a sudden sound barely muffled behind his hand.

Laurent was going to get the both of them killed before the night was over, Damen thought, not for the first time that night. He had to do something. And so, to save both of their lives, he moved Laurent’s hand away from his face and kissed him again, open-mouthed and soft.

Laurent let him. The thought that kissing Laurent might function as an effective silencing technique in the future briefly crossed Damen’s mind before he decided that he would have to feel suicidal to attempt it. He was kissing Laurent, and it left him dazed, the reality of the act as much as the sensation of it. He licked into the root of Laurent’s mouth, wanting to devour. Laurent’s body felt almost boneless when Damen’s hands pulled him closer, so pliant against his chest. Damen shivered. He couldn’t quite coordinate his breathing like he should.

His shoulder bumped against the shutter. Damen traced the curve of Laurent’s lip with his tongue, brushed his thumb along the curve of one high cheekbone. When his eyes opened he caught Laurent’s gaze, half-lidded with desire. Another kiss, slower this time, Laurent’s hand on the back of his neck, Laurent’s mouth so sweetly welcoming as their lips moved together. He wanted to pin Laurent to the wall, kiss a trail down his neck to his exposed chest, over his heartbeat. Damen rocked into him, but there wasn’t enough space like this, crammed together, and he pushed –

“What’s that?”

The words reverberated through him, sudden and chilling, like being doused with ice water. Damen froze.

“Just a cat,” he heard Volo say. “Look, are you sure –”

“That didn’t sound like a cat.”

A different guard, this time. The sound of footsteps crossing the room, moving closer. Laurent’s hands, curled into fists, pushed at his shoulders, and Damen lifted him up to reach the section of uneven rocks right above his head. Any second, now.

When Damen turned around to make the climb the weight of his shoulder bumped the shutter close, and he heard the shouts of the guards inside.

“There!” The shutter door opened just below him, and he pushed himself up with a hefty effort of his shoulders. Would the men dare to follow? He climbed up quicker.

“They’re on the wall!”

Almost there, now. Laurent had made it all the way over the edge of the roof and held down a hand, helping Damen get up to his feet on the roof tiles. The clay felt slippery under his boots, the grip of his feet precariously uneven, and for a moment he felt as though Laurent’s steady hold was the only thing keeping him upright. Laurent looked right back at him, then let go of his hand. For some profoundly stupid reason, he was smiling.

“Are you happy now?” Below them, he could hear more shouts, sounds of the guards spilling down outside, surrounding them. “We could have gotten away clear.”

“I told you,” said Laurent. “This is exciting.” He had thrown his head back and was looking at the stars. “There’s enough light, I think. Come along.”

He walked the length of the roof briskly and Damen watched, powerless in more than a way, as Laurent kicked a loose tile down to the street, eyes gleaming in satisfaction at the ruckus coming from below. Even in the dark, Damen could look nowhere else. Then he took on a run, clearing the distance to the next roof over in an elegant leap.

Damen followed, landing in a crouch on shaking knees. Another jump, shorter this time, and then they had to run around the perimeter of the roof to find a better spot to leap from, and the roof after that was smooth black stone, deceptively dangerous. A new sprint, one more jump, flashes of Laurent’s face as he aimed a wooden bucket down over the edge. It was exhilarating.

They landed on a balcony, and climbed up another storey, speed past an open window and heard an alarmed shout from inside. Damen toppled an ornate flowerpot down to the street and laughed at the noise it made as it shattered against a wall, raining dirt and rose petals. The next building had a drain, a rust-bitten thing that ran all the way down to the ground. Laurent pointed at it silently, gesturing to the deserted alley below, but Damen hesitated.

“I don’t think…” He judged the view in front of him. They were two stories up, and that drainpipe didn’t look very sturdy. It was a miracle they’d made it so far without a broken limb. “That’s not going to hold my weight.”

“That is why I’ll be going first. If you fall, I can’t promise to catch you,” Laurent said, lightly. “But you’ll probably land on my head.”

They climbed down; Laurent quick and agile, Damen much more careful than he had been on the way up. He was two yards above the ground when the pipe began to creak suspiciously, and he let go on his hold landing with a splash in the mud of the alley.

Laurent gave an inelegant snort. “Typical,” he began to say, but then Damen was on him, pinning him with his whole weight to the side of the alley.

“You wanted them to follow,” he said, and heard Laurent hum his soft assent in the air between them.  
  
Laurent said, “Am I becoming predictable? That's a pity.” Then he laid his hands on Damen's shoulders. “But you liked it.”  
  
Damen had liked it. He had liked the taste of Laurent against his mouth, and so he leaned in and kissed him once again, a soft brush of lips, and then he pressed one palm against the wall and lifted Laurent's chin up between thumb and forefinger, keeping him still so that he could explore the feeling of him. He tugged Laurent's lip between his teeth and felt him tremble, and Damen relished how sweet Laurent seemed to get when he was kissed like this, the boneless press of Laurent's body and his short shallow breaths.  
  
Then Laurent's hands pushed him away gently, and Damen stumbled a half-step backwards as he felt Laurent's hands skim down over his shoulders and to his chest, then tug sharply at his half-opened shirt.  
  
Laurent, he realised, was doing up his laces. His fingers were sure and quick, much like they had been earlier in the night when he had unlaced the strings at his wrists, and the feather-light brushes against the skin of his chest brought to mind all sort of images, soft lights and warm water, and the shimmering of sapphires.  
  
Damen swallowed.  
  
“You should really learn how to dress yourself,” said Laurent. He now looked just a speck less put together than he usually did, his own clothes laced up to his chin, if not as neatly as they had been yesterday. His head was cocked to the side, his hair windswept.  
  
He said, “You should learn to stay still. You’d make a horrible spy.”  
  
“I think we did quite well,” Laurent said. “Don't you agree?”  
  
And then he said, “Follow me,” and he walked off, leading him out of the alley and into the light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did say there was some cutesy stuff coming up :') One minute of silence for this AU Damen who has to listen to random soldiers speculate about Laurent’s celibacy and once in every ten years and all that, while Laurent is pretty much grinding against him just to rile him up. The shit he has to put up with, I stg.


	6. On the road

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to [Ginevre](https://ginevre.tumblr.com/) for looking this over

Somewhat to his surprise, Damen had come to like Laurent’s men. There was the Guard, whose members all knew each other, having served together for years, and who’d warmed to Damen pretty quickly once Jord had assumed the captaincy and they’d begun working closely on drills every night. Then there were the Regent’s mercenaries, who mostly seemed glad to have a chance at actual soldiering for once; and the men from Varenne, who had their own officers and were blissfully removed from the schemes of the court. They were also the only ones who didn’t engage in continuous gossip. Everyone else, it seemed, could find nothing better to do with their time.

It wouldn’t have been so bad had Damen been merely required to listen. In Arles he’d had his fill already: he’d heard about scandals, court factions and their machinations, bids on pets’ contracts, long descriptions of how Laurent had looked bent over the saddle on his morning ride.

Most of the gossip, then and now, was about Laurent. Even Jord, who’d gladly go to his death for his Prince, and Orlant, who made no secret of his attraction to women, wouldn’t shut up about the way Laurent’s tight riding leathers clung to his lithe body. Laurent had to be aware of it, but he seemed resigned to letting it happen as long as it was out of his hearing range. For Damen, this meant that the only way to avoid soldier gossip was to stay at Laurent’s side – which carried its own problems, invariably, the next time he found himself at the campfire.

“I am not fucking him,” he said, for what had to be the hundredth time. He said it firmly, staring into Aimeric’s pretty eyes, with every ounce of believability he could muster. Everyone, from his father to Kastor to Nikandros, had always told Damen how bad he was at lying.

It was, to his own ears, a pretty good attempt. His voice remained steady, exasperated, just a little bit bored. A man with nothing to hide.

A slow, admiring grin spread on Lazar’s face. “ _Good for you_ , Damen.” He sounded delighted if one could ever say that of Lazar, probably at the fresh gossip opportunity more than Damen’s supposed coup of good luck.

“I told you, I’m not.” This time the effort wasn’t as good. His voice trembled unexpectedly on the last word, the combined stares of the men unnerving him more than a battlefield ever could. Damen fought the impulse to clear his throat.

There were shouts and rowdy laughter from the gathered men. Huet whistled, even, to catch Damen’s attention, and then he said, “For real, does he ever suck your cock, or does he make you get on your knees for him every time?”

An image, unprompted, made its way into Damen’s mind: the shadowed interior of Laurent’s tent, last night, lying flat on the bedding with Laurent straddling his chest as he fucked his mouth so hard Damen’d thought he’d choke on him, and then he’d put Laurent down on his back and fucked him like that, with his legs in the air, biting viciously into his mouth. Damen stared down at the ground, face heating.

“I hate you,” said Huet. “I do. You lucky bastard.’

Damen said, “I told you, I didn’t.” He remembered Laurent’s strategy of talking endlessly when he wanted to confound his adversary into giving up, a constant barrier of nonsense and rebuttals. “You’ve seen him,” he said. “Do you think he’d let anyone that close to him?”

“I used to think that, but now I’m wondering whether he’s had lovers before, and just threatened them into silence.” This was Rochert; he said all of that with a pointed look at Damen, among the laughter of the men.

“Maybe he did,” Rochert went on. “Do you think he was a virgin before you got there?”

Not quite, Damen thought but close; he still hadn’t truly figured out which of Laurent’s strange hesitancies were born of inexpertise, and which the marks of an inconsiderate boyhood lover. He didn’t speak any of that, though, and Rochert seemed to read into his silence whatever he wished because he grinned.

Aimeric caught the exchange, seemingly interested in the new information. He called out to Jord, “Do you think he’s had suitors?”

Doubtful, said Jord, who went on to paint a picture of fifteen-year-old Laurent under assault from all sides by a horde of would-be suitors rather like a fort under siege. Damen couldn’t quite find it amusing, but he thought it informative, and decided to count himself lucky that the new turn in the conversation offered him some respite.

Until Rochert said, “How’d he go from whipping you bloody for touching him to dragging you into bed, anyway?”

“We are not fucking,” said Damen. He stood up and went to join the armsmen from Varenne, who were talking about armour repairs and would not ask any uncomfortable questions.

That evening, after dinner, he couldn’t quite meet Laurent’s eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Laurent’s soft voice was tinged with deceptive surprise. “What are you sorry for?”

Of course Laurent was going to make him say it. That sparked a brief flash of annoyance inside of him: the brief half-apology was already more than Laurent deserved, and he was hardly going to make good on his bloody threat of having Damen flogged for encouraging the rumours – for reasons of practicality and troop morale, not because he thought Laurent sentimental. He’d be better off ignoring him, Damen thought, but he found himself feeling a tinge of sympathy. Laurent, painfully private, would hardly be comfortable with having his private habits made into public spectacle.

That was the only reason why he stretched out his hand, lightly, to touch Laurent at the elbow. “I wasn’t – I got dragged into it,” said Damen, even though it was a pointless excuse and he should be above it. “Lazar was teasing Aimeric, and then…” He felt like a child confessing some mischief to his mother, except of course that had never been him. He just wanted Laurent to know – “You know I wouldn’t say a word.”

Laurent regarded him with a long, curious look.

“I suppose you can’t be faulted for being a horrible liar,” he said, mercifully. That seemed to remind him of something else; he frowned, that little crease between his brows that he got whenever he was thinking intently, and pinned Damen with a long look.

“Follow me.”

Laurent took him out of his tent and past the pitched lines, making Damen half-afraid they were about to leave for another sudden jaunt into some sleepy town that wasn’t ready for Laurent’s convoluted plans.

He breathed more easily once they passed the lines of horses, but Laurent seemed determined to lead him past the edges of the camp. Rochert was on sentry duty for the night; he waved them over with a small bow in Laurent’s direction and a look that spoke miles.

Damen said. “Perhaps this is not the best way to stop the men from talking.” His face burned.

“Tomorrow, when you are asked about this, you should imply that I don’t reward indiscretions,” said Laurent. “You might also try to look contrite when we get back. As if I let you unsatisfied.” He said all of that in his usual mild voice. Damen’s body had become oddly attuned to that voice; he could no longer listen to Laurent making plans without some part of him thinking of Laurent, in that same tone, giving him directions in bed.

They stopped well within shouting distance of the sentry perimeter, an unexpected show of sanity on Laurent’s part that let Damen pleasantly surprised. Laurent stripped off his jacket, then sat on a discarded log cut down earlier for firewood, gesturing for Damen to do likewise.

“There is something I have to tell you. I’ve debated whether I should, given the risk, and this is the best option,” said Laurent. “Don’t make me regret it.”

Damen waited. Laurent had crossed one leg over his knee, resting his chin on the palm of his hand. He said, “Aimeric has been spying for my uncle.”

“ _Aimeric_?” He couldn’t quite control his voice, which was in hindsight probably why Laurent had brought him all the way here. “Aimeric,” Damen said, again. He did not ask if Laurent was sure. Laurent wouldn’t make such a claim if he wasn’t. “Does Jord know?”

“Of course he doesn’t,” said Laurent. Damen, who should probably have known – he couldn’t imagine Jord carrying on with Aimeric otherwise – felt a tinge of sympathy. He thought of Jokaste, in the slave baths.

“Huet does,” said Laurent. “And Orlant, they’ve been intercepting his dispatches – I’ve put the both of them on him weeks ago. Aimeric could hardly take one of my men, let alone two.”

“All right,” said Damen. “What do you want me to do about this?”

That seemed to take Laurent by surprise if such a thing were possible. “Nothing,” he said, blinking. “For now. I – thought you should know. But please refrain from wringing his neck next time you see him. He might not be a very good spy but you, as we’ve established, are a horrible liar.”

“I am sorry,” said Damen. “That my poor talent for deception offends your Veretians sensibilities.”

Laurent laughed. It was loud. Rochert, who was in all certainty straining his ears at his sentry post trying to pick up any compromising sounds, had probably heard it. He would be staring into the darkness, stunned, right about now.

Minutes passed. Laurent gave no signs of wanting to go back.

After sunset, the mountain air quickly turned too cold for Damen’s tastes. The humidity did not help. “How long are we going to stay here?”

“Depends. How long do you want Rochert to think you take to finish?” Laurent said. He stood up. “We could go back right now. He’ll think your inadequate stamina is what made me laugh.”

“I don’t mind it if we stay,” said Damen, perhaps a little too quickly. “I only meant – it’s a bit cold.” He said that meaningfully, and Laurent laughed again. He sat back down, this time coming to straddle Damen’s leg.

“Is it,” said Laurent. He put his hands on Damen’s shoulders.

Their lips met. He was kissing Laurent; he got to do this more often than not lately, and he appreciated every minute of it. The feeling of Laurent’s mouth moving with his own, the tickle of Laurent’s hair on his face, Laurent’s small breaths.

Laurent had soft plump lips, lightly chapped after weeks on campaign. Damen thought it a shame for the world at large he didn’t kiss more people and a private blessing that he got to experience this for himself, impossibly pleasant in the simplicity of it.

It wasn’t quite so cold, now. Laurent’s lips found his jaw, his chin, the corner of his mouth. He had begun rocking into Damen’s hip in a slow, delicious rhythm, and Damen wondered whether there was any purpose there, or if it was just to drive him insane. He brought his palm to Laurent’s back, feeling the body under layers of clothing. Damen pressed down, encouraging him to move. He thought of Laurent coming like this, in silence. Damen would undress him, later, peel off the black leather to reveal the spill of Laurent’s pleasure.

“Yes,” Laurent said, as if he’d read his mind. “Like that.”

Laurent’s hand came to tangle in his hair, nails scratching lightly at his scalp, and every time he moved his hip rubbed the outline of Damen’s cock under all of their clothes. It was a simple sort of pleasure, of the kind a young man may share with a first romance and then outgrow; something that Damen, with an array of lovers at his disposal since he’d felt the need for it, had never experienced. Never had Laurent, he was sure, and that made it all the sweeter, this aimless trysting under the stars.

Laurent pulled his mouth away. “Do you want–”

“Yes,” Damen said, before he’d even finished. Laurent’s hand, still fisted in his hair, gave a sharp pull.

“As I was going to say, perhaps we should go back. Before we forget ourselves altogether,” said Laurent, in a poised tone that made the possibility of his words sound absurd. “Besides,” he added. “It’s full of insects out here.”

“There are insects in the camp, too,” said Damen, but he rose to his feet when Laurent did.

They were almost to the boundaries of the camp when Laurent pressed himself closer to whisper, “What do you think Rochert will say if I took your hand and led you back to the tent like that?”

It was an impossible image. It evoked a burst of feelings within him: shock that Laurent would even suggest something like this, discomfort as he thought of the reactions of the men, and a sharp, impossible longing as he allowed himself to consider the idea.

Then they emerged under the torchlights of the perimeter, and Damen found himself face to face with the night sentry, who took one look at him and read whatever they wished to find among the multitude of emotions in his eyes. He turned his head away, embarrassed.

“There,” said Laurent, once they’d passed the sentry. “You were looking quite shocked. Tomorrow, they might leave you alone for a bit.”

And then, once there was nobody else in sight but rows of silent tents and shadowed patches of grass, Laurent’s hand found his own in a deliberate hold. “Come,” Laurent said, leading him along just as he’d said he would, and the look he threw Damen from over his shoulder was reminiscent of the one he’d had in Nesson, playing games. He wondered what prize Laurent was hoping to win.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The sudden burst of Random Plot was brought to you because this way Orlant is alive. I need Orlant to stay alive. I love him to pieces! He’s my man, my dude, my bae.


	7. Alier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all the people whose brains I picked writing this chapter. Also: new tag has been added! This chapter contains rimming. Please remember that this entire story takes place in the Magical Land of Slash, where everybody is always squeaky clean.

The first time Damen heard Laurent speak Akielon, with his soft accent and fussy manner, he laughed. It was amusing, and pleasant to listen to.

As the evening went on, he found that he enjoyed the sound of Laurent’s halting Akielon more than he could ever have imagined. The sight of Laurent’s lips shaping around the words, the gleam of effort in his clear eyes when he struggled to make his meaning known, the lilting rhythm that turned talks of military defences more seductive than they had any right to be.

“Try that again,” Damen prompted, because he was not above taking his enjoyment where he could get it. Laurent, who wasn’t accustomed to achieving anything short of perfection, gave him a frustrated look.

“Is that not the word? I mean,” said Laurent. “The part of the army that you send. Ahead.”

Damen said. “The vanguard.”

“That, yes. The van _guard_.” Laurent’s voice had a soft musicality. Every time he stressed the wrong syllable he somehow managed to make the word sound charming like sweet nothings whispered to a lover in a perfumed alcove.

Damen cleared his throat. “Could you – say that word again? I don’t think you’ve quite got it yet.”

Laurent did. He kept speaking and Damen listened intently, trying to handle the task with all the detachment he could muster, stifle that improbable spark of fondness that threatened to ignite inside his chest.

In fact, Damen thought he was doing a good job. He hardly ever laughed even at the worst mistakes, managed to provide an honest assessment of Laurent’s Akielon competencies, and he couldn’t exactly be blamed if, sometimes, he asked Laurent to repeat himself when he stumbled on a word that sounded – _intriguing_ when it was Laurent pronouncing it. Damen knew that even once returned safely to Akielos he wouldn’t be able to discuss battle lines and fort defences without remembering this night, his bouts of laughter at Laurent’s clumsiest attempts, and Laurent’s amused scoff when he caught up to what Damen had been doing. It was as though he were learning his own language anew, hearing it for the first time from Laurent’s lips.

When Laurent was satisfied with their progress for the night, he called for Damen to help him undress. He did it in Akielon, and the words rattled strangely in the air between them.

Akielon was, under many regards, a straightforward language. There was only one form of address, unlike Veretian, which had two depending on the status of one’s interlocutor. Deference was conveyed through titles, but they weren’t using those now. Laurent was addressing him, in his own language, as an equal. Damen replied in kind, and he felt an illusion of closeness with Laurent, of camaraderie, that was deceptive in how much he enjoyed it.

Then there was the odd, overwhelming feeling of hearing Laurent give orders to him in Akielon, and responding to them. It had been uncomfortable at first and then, strangely enough, it hadn’t.

Damen took care of Laurent’s armour, his saddle, his sword. He was unfastening his jacket when Laurent asked, calmly, as if it were a mere intellectual curiosity, about commands for slaves.

He said, “You know I was not a slave in Akielos.”

“You’ve made use of slaves, have you not?” Laurent hardly waited for him to give a nod in reply before he said, again. “How does one direct a slave in Akielos?”

The words shook through him like the beat of drums. Some part of Damen felt as though it had been anticipating this moment since the first time he was delivered to Laurent, chained and enraged.

“What do you mean?” Damen asked. The back of his fingers brushed the soft cloth of Laurent’s shirt.

“When you used slaves,” said Laurent. “What did do with them?”

Akielon society, not unlike its language, was unambiguous. There was nothing elaborate about using slaves: pleasure slaves were for fucking. Damen removed Laurent’s jacket, remembering all the time he’d had his own slaves undress him before taking them to bed. He couldn’t help but picture – he’d been wondering, for weeks now: would Laurent ever demand to fuck him?

The thought had made him scared at first, and angry that something like that would ever happen to him, and then it had faded into a strange nervousness he couldn’t describe. Lately, it had gotten worse. Damen caught himself thinking about it almost every day, with a sort of nervous anticipation that got more and more intense as Laurent’s demeanour changed, brought new things he allowed himself to say and do and feel as if he’d been slowly but steadily breaking some barrier inside him.

Damen pushed Laurent’s jacket off his shoulders and he wondered, if he voiced any of his thoughts, what Laurent would do. He could say: if you own a slave, you should fuck him. Would Laurent be intrigued? He could be endlessly inquisitive at times. Damen wondered how it would be. Hesitant, at first, but Laurent had a diabolical streak. He would enjoy making Damen feel it.

His hands felt hot and slightly damp with sweat. “In Akielos,” Damen said, instead. “If you own a slave, you’d usually take him to bed.”

Laurent’s shirt was done up the front to his chin, and the thin undershirt under that had a low neck. When he started on the collar, his finger touched skin. Laurent was sensitive there, over his collarbone. If Damen were to kiss him there he would close his eyes, and shiver.

“I thought I was already doing that,” said Laurent. “Is there really nothing else?”

When Kastor had him sent to Vere he must have been picturing something just like this, disgrace over death. He should feel insulted that Laurent took him to bed, ashamed, but all Damen could think about was how he was likely the only person who’d ever brought Laurent so much pleasure, and it felt heady. Laurent was close enough to kiss.

He divested Laurent of his shirt, then unlaced the linen undershirt down to where it disappeared into his trousers, even though it was loose enough that Laurent could easily tug it over his head, just to brush his hands against warm skin. This was the point where he would stop, usually, unless they were about to fuck, over the covers, and the atmosphere would be completely different.

Damen did not stop. Laurent was standing, unlaced to the waist, calmly asking about Akielon customs. He said, “Slaves in Akielos perform poetry readings. Or they play instruments or sing. I’m rather bad at all of these.”

Laurent said, “You give me military advice instead.”

His riding trousers were black leather, gone soft with use, smooth to the touch. Damen had unlaced those strings many times, standing chest to chest, before taking Laurent in hand or turning him around to press a hot kiss to the back of his neck. What he was doing now was something different. It was warm in the tent. Laurent was speaking Akielon, blurring all the words.

Damen went to his knees and put his hands to the side of Laurent’s left boot.

Laurent said, “What are you doing?” His voice hitched.

Damen didn’t raise his head. The boots were easy: boots were, thankfully, much the same everywhere, even though Laurent’s were overly elaborate, with about a dozen silver buckets.

“In Akielos,” he said. “A slave would not stop until you gave the order.” He kept his eyes on his task; this too was how it was done in Akielos. If he looked up, Damen knew, Laurent’s face would be reddened. He didn’t blush as much as he used to, but he would now. They were both breathing shallowly.

He unfastened one boot and then, methodically, the other. He raised himself up on his knees to do the strings at Laurent’s waist, then brought down the leather around each leg, so that Laurent might step out his trousers. Laurent had on hose up to his knees; he took those off also, and it felt acutely visceral in the silence between them. Damen brought a hand to caress Laurent’s hip over the linen, letting his thumb skim over the hollow there. Laurent’s shirt, open to the waist, hung down to mid-thigh. He undid the last few lacings and saw that he had begun to harden.

Damen had never done this before. In all their days and nights, all the times he’d touched Laurent and undressed him he’d never done it so thoroughly and so completely; bared every inch of Laurent, slowly, to the view. Laurent would push him away halfway through, or grab at him, kiss his throat. Then it would turn into something faster, greedy. This had been deliberate, playing up the part he’d been pushed into. _Servitude_. He should think of Kastor, and feel furious, and humiliated, but all he could focus on was that Laurent had never let anyone touch his body as Damen had.

Laurent’s hand fell on his hair, drawing his head up.

“You…” said Laurent. And then, “I like it better when you look at me.”

“I thought you wanted to learn about Akielon customs.”

Laurent’s other hand, the one that wasn’t tangled in his hair, came to touch his face; tracing his jaw, the shape of his lips, brushing his thumb across the length of one eyebrow.

“Akielon customs are idiotic,” Laurent informed him. “You pick your slaves because they’re pretty and then won’t even look at them in the face.” He was exploring with both hands now, cradling Damen’s cheeks in his palms, sweeping a stray curl away from his forehead, feeling the flutter of Damen’s lashes against the pad of a finger.

Damen said, “Are you saying you think my face is pretty?”

“I think I’d like to come on it,” said Laurent. He said in Akielon, and Damen felt all the air leave his lungs. Then he watched Laurent’s eyes go wide as if he’d just realised his own words, and his face turned very pink.

“Do you really–”

“Don’t speak.” Laurent tugged him up to his feet and Damen went, letting himself be lead to the bedding and pushed down on it, laying on his back. He was still clothed, in his blue uniform with Laurent’s starburst embroidered over his chest. The contrast was stunning. Laurent’s eyes gleamed in the candlelight.

Damen tried again. “Are you going to…” He couldn’t finish. The thought was obscene. He’d never had that done to him, ever.

“No, I’m –” Laurent shook his head, then leaned down to press a kiss to Damen’s lips, close-mouthed. “I told you not to talk.”

The pillows were silk-smooth and luxurious, just like the slow slide of Laurent’s mouth on his own, and Damen sighed into the kiss. He let his hand run along the length of Laurent’s side, the dip of his spine, and then he thought – he wanted to put his mouth there.

“Turn around.” He pushed on Laurent’s shoulder, slightly, so that he would pull back. Laurent looked down at him with unfocused eyes, then nodded briskly, and rolled around to lay on his stomach.

When he put his mouth on Laurent’s skin, he felt him tremble. Damen pressed small kisses, slowly, down the length of his back, light and quick with his mouth open. Then he slid down further so he could trace with his tongue over the curve of Laurent’s ass; it was round and pale, and he bent his head to suck on the soft skin there, press his lips and teeth in wet round circles. Damen clutched at Laurent’s cheeks to spread him open, keeping him like that so he could look at him there, until Laurent started to squirm, with arousal and anticipation and the feeling of being so exposed. He shivered when Damen licked over his hole, tracing the tip of his tongue around the furled curl of his rim, and Laurent sighed, very slightly, at the sensation of it.

Damen did it again and again, laying thin wet stripes across Laurent’s hole, and when he gave a firm lick inside Laurent tightened around his tongue. It was nothing like the feeling of Laurent clenching around his fingers, or his cock; that was pleasant but this, close as they were, was achingly intimate. Laurent swore softly, then thrust down into the bedding. Damen left his hands where they were, to keep Laurent there, nice and open as he licked into him. There was heat against his mouth, his tongue. Laurent’s heat. Laurent arching back into his mouth, pressing up so close as if he couldn’t get enough. Inebriating.

“Touch yourself,” Laurent said, breathless. “Under your clothes. Do it now.” He felt Laurent shift under him, twist and bit and push his hips up, and he knew that Laurent was doing the same, thrusting into his hand as he writhed under Damen’s mouth.

He slid one hand down under his belt, loosening it just enough so he could fit his hand under his trousers to fist his cock, pumping it tight with the same rhythm as his tongue pushing sloppy into Laurent’s hole. Damen lost himself in it, the warmth and sweat and the frantic, pulsating pleasure.

Laurent came before he did. He rolled off Damen and laid himself next to him, tugging him around so he could lay his head on Damen’s shoulder and put his hand over Damen’s own, under his clothes, working Damen’s cock. Damen was fully dressed still; Laurent was naked and rosy, drinking in the sight of him.

When he came, Laurent’s lip curled in amusement. “Go get cleaned up,” he said. “That’ll be disgusting when it dries.” As if it hadn’t been his idea in the first place.

Damen was sweat-drenched and sticky in his overly warm Veretian leathers. Laurent wasted no time to scurry away, as he liked to do, to get himself a towel and something to wear as if he could scrub away clean all traces of what they’d been doing. He splashed his face with water, even, but it did nothing for the flush on his skin. It made Damen laugh.

Laurent threw him a look. “You’re filthy,” he said, which Damen thought was a bit of an exaggeration. He went to change into his night clothes and drink some water, then found himself lingering awkwardly in the middle of the sleeping area. Usually, at this point in the night, he would go back to his own pallet.

Laurent sat among his silks with his knees folded under the edge of his nightshirt. He gave Damen a measured look. “How does one reward a slave for a service well rendered?”

He said it in Akielon, still. Damen might have laughed, let it fall into easy banter. He could make it about Laurent and himself, not his people. Instead. “You don’t. A reward for service is more service.” It sounded harsh when he said it like that; cold. Laurent wouldn’t understand, what the intimacy of service meant to one trained in the gardens. “Slaves take pride in that.” Hesitating. “It is difficult to explain.”

“Clearly,” said Laurent. And then, startling as a thunderbolt. “Would you like some candied fruit?”

He said the word in Veretian; Damen repeated it in Akielon, slightly stunned at the turn in conversation. “Candied fruit?”

“In Vere,” Laurent’s lip had curled up slightly. “We do reward our pets. Jewellery is traditional, but somehow I don’t believe you’d care for it. So. Candied fruit.” And then. “Oh, sit and stop hovering.”

Damen let himself fall down on Laurent’s bedding, shaking his head to himself. _Candied fruit_. Laurent had indeed provided a jar containing orange-and-yellow glazed morsels, retrieved from somewhere inside the chest where he kept his clothes.

“Should I ask why you have sweets on campaign? Hidden among your clothes.”

“I like the taste.” Laurent’s voice held far too much dignity. “I’m to be King. I can carry around whatever I like.” And then, “Don’t give me that look. You should count yourself lucky I am sharing these at all.”

The jar, Damen noticed, was half-empty. He said, “I can see that you usually don’t.”

“Stop talking. Here.” Laurent held out a mouthful of sweets, pinched between thumb and forefinger. Damen thought of Laurent playing pet in the inn in Nesson, Laurent feeding him sweetmeats in the palace. Torveld had been staring then, enraptured by the scene unfolding in front of him. Patras was much like Akielos in that regard; the act, coming from a prince, sparked forbidden desires.

“Masters don’t feed slaves in Akielos,” said Damen. “You probably know this. It’s the other way around.”

“Good thing we’re not in Akielos,” said Laurent. “Eat it. Or I’m taking it back.”

Damen encircled Laurent’s wrist with his own darker hand, bringing it to his mouth. He picked at the fruit with his lips and teeth; it was impossibly sweet, lightly spiced, almost overwhelming in its elaborate taste. It was like nothing he would have in Akielos.

He closed his eyes and licked crumbled of powdered spice from Laurent’s fingers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun thing about me is that I have no shame and wrote like half of this in class, while also sparking a lively chat about Damen wearing sock garters.


	8. Acquitart

“So, this is Acquitart.” Damen gave a long, pointed look around the armoury, taking in the grey stone walls, the well-furnished weaponry racks, the patterned floor tiles done in sober green-and-ochre. The whole castle was plain and sturdy, as unadorned as Vere could get, but everything about it looked surprisingly functional. He turned back to Laurent.

“From the way you spoke about it, I was expecting…” A run-down fortress that had once been grand, perhaps. Certainly not this. “This is almost–”

“Humble?” Laurent’s brows arched over bright blue eyes. 

It wasn’t a word that suited him. “Comfortable. And the hunt here is very good.”

He spoke slowly, almost lazily, as lazy as the light press of his fingers on the side of Damen’s neck. Laurent was perched on the wooden table of the armoury, looking more relaxed than Damen had ever seen him.

His hand was on Damen’s shoulder, ostensibly to brace his arm as Damen worked on the vambraces of his armour, but there didn’t need to be so much touching for that, not really. Not that Damen minded. The pulse in his neck flickered under Laurent’s touch. He swallowed before speaking.

“Do you travel here often?”

“A few times a year. Less so of late,” said Laurent. “Do you like it?” He said it casually, as if the answer were of no consequence to him, but Damen had learned enough about Laurent to know that he wouldn’t ask for his opinion if he didn't care for it.

Damen kept his voice neutral. “Better than Arles,” he said, and saw Laurent’s eyes flicker in his direction.

“The climate is better here.” Laurent's eyes met his. “My brother used to say.”

That was dangerous territory. Damen said, lightly, “For hunting?”

“And riding. Do the breastplate.”

Laurent sat straight as Damen reached around his shoulders to unclasp the chest piece, that Veretians called _cuirasse_  and wore along with a separate back piece. His hand reached up to brush back the hair over Damen’s forehead. “It’s ridiculous,” Laurent informed him. “You should cut it.”

Damen’s hair was cut in the Akielon style, which wasn’t much of a style at all compared to the elaborate trims Veretians favoured. He didn’t say any of that. Laurent’s touch was light, and when Damen pulled back he traced his fingers over Damen’s lips.

“When we rode in, did you get a good look at the grounds?”

He went on, talking about the fort and the grounds, and how Acquitart had been created as a principate some seven generations ago, to foster on a spoiled Crown Prince who kept wasting his revenues on a too-expensive mistress.

That gave Damen pause. “A  _female_  mistress?” he asked, and Laurent laughed.

“It was very scandalous. If it had been a man, the court wouldn’t have cared if he’d sold royal lands to buy trinkets. But it was a woman, and the Queen his mother had no other children to pass the crown to, so she made her son ruler of Acquitart and Acquitart only, to learn how to rule and live off his new income.” Laurent’s eyes sparkled. “It’s not very much. The grounds are small and the fort can barely pay for its upkeep. No more lavish gifts.”

“Did the mistress leave the Prince?”

“Oh no, they married,” Laurent said. “Years later, after her older husband died. That made the entire kingdom fall in love with her, of course. How the Prince had waited for her for years when he could have had anyone. And there had been no bastards, so nobody could prove they had gone to bed together before the consummation.”

And then, because it was Laurent, he added, “I’m sure they fucked plenty in the lord’s bedroom, but the mattress has been replaced once or twice since. I’ll show you later.”

Once the armour was off, Laurent didn’t seem in a hurry to go anywhere. He took off his leather paddings himself and remained there to watch, handing Damen cloths and tools as he checked the give of every single buckle and carefully worked a layer of grease over the polished metal. There were long looks and lingering touches, and Laurent was bright-eyed and animated as he spoke fast with a smile on his lips, sharing the story of the time two summers ago when he’d gone on a hunt with the young lord of Nimes and Lady Vannes from the court, and gotten lost in a storm.

Later Laurent led him to the lord’s bedroom, as he'd said he would, behind a door carved with a fine motif of small leaves and caterfoils. Laurent’s quarters were all done up in green and gold, with thick carpets and heavy curtains, and the rooms all flowed into one another through curved archways with no doors. Burning candles gave off a gentle scent like oranges and cinnamon. The décor was lavish, all polished wood and silk cushions and tall carved ceilings, unlike the rest of Acquitart but very like Laurent.

Damen thought of being marched into Laurent’s rooms in Arles by armed guards, chained and with his hands bound, one month and a lifetime away. He distracted himself by staring at Laurent, who walked around the room slowly, halting to take a long look to that carved cabinet, that ornate tapestry on the wall.

In the bedroom there was a small fire burning in the grand hearth, and a writing desk with legs carved into animal shapes that held a silver plate filled with fresh fruit and honeyed sweetmeats, and three leather-bound books, stacked up one on top of the other. Laurent’s fingers traced slowly the painted cover of one book, and he scoffed softly when he laid eyes on the plate.

“I see Arnoul got here,” he said, wry.

“Is that a bad thing?” The servants and dwellers of Acquitart seemed to love Laurent even more than the people of Arles did, lining up in the streets of the town when they’d ridden in early that morning. Arnoul, for all that he’d probably been born with that scowl permanently etched into his face, had looked at Laurent clad in his shiny armour with undeniable pride in his eyes.

“It’s not bad, but,” Laurent paused. “I think, in his mind, I’m still sixteen.”

Damen thought of Laurent at sixteen. He had already inherited Acquitart by then; he probably travelled here whenever he could. He must have stayed in this same bedroom. He pictured Laurent, over the years.

“You said you visited often.” Damen looked around, inspecting the room under Laurent’s gaze. There was a washstand with a polished mirror for shaving, and a tall candelabra by the bed. “Did you ever,” Damen began. “In this bed?”

The bed was large enough to fit three, and the canopy was gold-threaded satin. Laurent scoffed again. “No.”

They could remedy that later. Damen liked the thought of it; it would be something Laurent had never done, something he would think about it every time he was back in this castle. Then he considered Laurent in this bed, alone.

“And did you… by yourself?”

This time, Laurent looked like he was about to laugh. “You can’t even say it.” His voice was mocking. “Did I what?”

Damen found himself moving in closer. “Touched yourself.” He could see it already, Laurent with his eyes closed and his brow damp with sweat, his cock in hand. “In this bed, until you came. Did you?”

“No.”

Damen, slightly stunned, reached for him instinctively. “You’re lying.”

“Am I,” Laurent looked back, almost defiant. And then he looked amused. “You’re thinking about it.”

“Yes.” There was no use denying it. And then, because the curtains were pulled to obscure the room, and it was a lazy afternoon with no pressing duties, Damen said, “You could show me.”

“I,” Laurent said. Damen watched him swallow. “There’s things I need to do.”

Damen thought about kissing him. He didn’t, not yet. “Things.”

“Things,” Laurent repeated, his tone far more practical. “I’m going to need you to do something later, after supper. For now, I need to inspect the barracks. You’re coming with me.”

“Inspect the barracks,” Damen said, but he stepped back anyway so that Laurent could recompose himself if he wanted. Instead, Laurent surprised him by tugging at his collar and kissing his lips, with his mouth open and hungry.

“I had never done that in here either,” he said, when he pulled back. “If that’ll make you feel better about yourself.”

They went back outside, to the soldiers’ barracks. Coming out together from Laurent’s quarters after Laurent hadn't been seen around for a couple of hours meant that Damen found himself the object of admiring looks and knowing smirks as he waited for Laurent to finish his inspection, take Jord’s report, and rely his orders. Then, when the sky had begun turning fiery oranges and purples, Laurent informed him that he’d be taking supper with Arnoul to discuss something about local administration, and Damen was dismissed.

Laurent left, and Damen ate with the men and wondered what they would be doing tonight. After supper he declined Orlant’s offer to play cards, Huet’s offer to exchange gossip by the fires, and Jord’s offer to spar in the morning. He declined to partake in the wine that was flowing freely and went to have a look at all the corridors and stairwells in the keep in case Laurent decided they had to dash off somewhere in the middle of the night.

Halfway between the armoury and the mess hall he almost ran into Jord, who was being tugged along by his hand by Aimeric to the nearest staircase. He watched Aimeric whisper into Jord’s ear and saw him melt into their kiss, looking for all the world hopelessly smitten. Something about his loose-limbed abandon reminded Damen of how Laurent had acted in the armoury earlier, with his quick smiles and wandering hands, except that Laurent had no reason to pretend to like him. He felt something turn in his stomach.

With the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Orlant, frozen halfway behind a corner, listening to the same sound of lingering footsteps disappearing up a set of stairs, looking as unsettled as Damen felt.

Damen, who didn’t like Orlant nearly as much as he liked Jord, said, “That’s…”

“I know,” said Orlant, who didn’t like Damen at all.

“He should be told.”

“The Prince said not to.” Orlant sometimes liked to brag about how cold and unfeeling Laurent was, as if it were an accomplishment, but he plainly didn’t look happy with the situation now.

Damen said, “Jord deserves better than that.”

“The Prince,” Orlant repeated. “Said not to. Don’t try to get me to disobey orders.” Then he scowled. “Take it up with him if you like, next time you get him alone.”

“Right,” Damen said. He turned where Jord had disappeared to, the staircase to the eastern tower where Laurent’s rooms were.

“You’re really…” He heard Orlant’s voice behind him. “ _Idiot_.”

He reached Laurent’s apartments to find him done with his dinner, still sitting at the head of the table in one of the outer rooms while two servants cleaned up the dirty dishes and half-empty bowls of fruit.

Laurent was asking about their families and the harvest and whether someone named Garret had truly moved to Kempt to follow a lover when he couldn’t even stand the milder winters of southern Vere. Then he caught sight of Damen.

“I told you to wait for me,” Laurent said, but he didn't look at all displeased to see him. “Do you want an orange? Joanne is about to take them away.”

Damen declined the orange and sat down at the table under the curious gaze of the servants. Then he thought better of it, and accepted it just so he could have something to do while the women kept putting away dishes on their tray and Laurent kept on making him wait in favour of inquiring after the children and the hounds and lambs of people who truly seemed to think of him as if he was still sixteen.

When Laurent casually swiped an orange slice from Damen’s hand without even pausing, Joanne the serving maid regarded him with an indulgent look that Damen would never have expected to see on the face of anyone who’d ever been in the same room as Laurent. On his own face, perhaps, but that would be after sex and it hardly counted.

Once they were alone, Laurent finally turned to look at him properly. “You can escort me to the stables if you insist.” And then, making his way out of the room. “Weren’t you enjoying the celebrations in the barracks? I know the wine was good.”

Damen waited until they were away from any sentries or lit corridors, even though it had gotten late and all he could hear were drunken shouts and distant singing. Then, as they were approaching the unguarded door to the stable, he said, “There’s something I need to tell you,” and watched Laurent’s intent look turn concerned.

“Has something–”

“It’s not,” Damen said. “It’s… You need to tell Jord. About–”

Next to him, Laurent went very rigid. “Absolutely not,” he said. “If that’s why you came seek me out, you wasted your time. You’d have been better off staying at the feast.”

 _Idiot_ , Orlant had said. Like he’d told Orlant, Damen repeated. “Jord deserves better. He’s loyal to you. He–”

“I can’t afford,” Laurent began, then stopped. He started walking again very quickly. “You have no idea,” he spoke in a furious whisper. “Of the lengths I’ll go to, to get what I need to survive.”

“You play with people.”

Then, because Laurent didn’t seem to be listening, Damen reached out and clasped his shoulder. Laurent twisted in his hold – like a snake, Damen thought, quick and vicious, speaking in hisses.

“You,” he said, “are forgetting your place.”

They were very close, as close as they’d been in the bedroom earlier, in the armoury. Laurent’s breath was hot on his face and Damen thought that in the past few weeks of coming to like Laurent he might have forgotten all that Laurent was capable of.

And then Laurent’s mouth was on his, under the stars, and Laurent’s hands were roaming over his body, pressing his back against the stable door, and Damen kissed him back, and he didn’t think much at all anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Exy for looking this over ❤


	9. The Vaskian Camp

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check the updated tags: as in canon, the first half of the chapter contains an one-off instance of het sex. Unlike canon, it also features Laurent.

They left Acquitart behind in the dark of night, unnoticed. The men had been joking and laughing loudly in the barracks, playing some sort of card game, but Jord hadn't been there. When Damen had suggested Laurent tell Jord about Aimeric he’d been rebuffed: not yet. It was just like Laurent, to be playing games with people’s lives. Damen should know.

“What are we doing?” It came out perhaps too bitter, but Laurent seemed unfazed. He threw Damen a long look from behind his shoulder.

“Riding.”

His voice was flat. Earlier, outside the stables, he’d gone on his tiptoes and taken Damen’s mouth in a kiss, sneaking his hands across Damen’s body under his leathers in a way that made his breath come out roughly, but there hadn’t been time for anything else. He had to ride, after, physically affected and warm under his collar; Laurent undoubtedly thought that it was funny. In a different sort of mood, Damen might have found it charming, but he was getting tired of Laurent’s high-handed ways.

He said, “You know this is not what I meant.” He wanted to tell Laurent to stop toying with him. He knew he couldn’t bear it if Laurent ever would.

“What else are we doing?” Laurent spoke coolly. He must have caught on to Damen’s bad mood, and seemed or was determined to make it worse. “Unless you mean how I am putting you to proper use.”

Damen wanted to say: _you certainly are_. He wondered what Laurent would take away from their time together when the time came. He would take another lover at some point, and give him all he’d practised on Damen. He would go on with his life, as Damen would, but Damen’s world had been inevitably changed by their time together on a deep level he was only now beginning to understand. He wished, egotistically, to know that he’d affected Laurent just as much. He wished he could know for sure how Laurent felt about him.

Laurent led them to a ruined tower, crumbled to pieces and covered in moss. He said, “I used to come here when I was younger, with my brother. ” He sounded younger, too, and Damen went still. It had been stupid of him to forget. He already knew perfectly well what Laurent thought of Damianos.

Later there were the Vaskians, with their tents and clanswomen and their fires. Laurent paid him hardly any attention as he negotiated with the chief, and Damen let his eyes wander, looking from the roaring flames to the athletic bodies of the warrior women around them. He’d missed this in Vere, being around women, being able to look at them. Damen had never practised restraint in his desire, and the strict Veretian social practices had chafed at him.

Laurent caught him looking. Damen thought about explaining himself, wondered if Laurent would understand, but Laurent merely said something in Vaskian to Halvik that had them both chuckling and look at Damen as if he were a curious specimen.

Then Laurent turned to Veretian: he spoke of coupling fires, Halvik’s girls and _services_. The word had at some point turned incredibly erotic in Damen’s imagination, and he swallowed.

The women were enticing. Laurent’s manner, the way he spoke of him as if of a prized stud, was infuriating. One should not barter the services of a lover so freely – or at all, Damen thought. Had Laurent been his, he wouldn’t have let anyone else touch him.

Laurent didn’t seem to care who else Damen fucked. He looked from him to Kashel and coolly asked Damen if he might need direction as if he knew the first thing about laying with a woman. Damen ignored him and kissed Kashel on the mouth, tasting the _hakesh_ on her tongue; then on the neck, the way Laurent liked; then on her breasts, which were soft and shapely, something he’d greatly missed.

Laurent left along with Halvik. Damen heard them depart, told himself it was better this way.

He had Kashel twice. The first time it was fast and heated, she on top of him, hips circling and hair loose. The second time she had gone soft and pliant, and her body was spread out for Damen to touch much like Laurent when he was in one of those moods when all he wanted was for it to be slow and deep. The comparison lodged itself into his brain, whether Damen wanted it or not.

Then there was another girl, whose name he hadn’t learned. He fucked her on her hands and knees, and she dug half-moon imprints of nails into the flesh of his thigh as she came. The girl after had him on his back; by then, he was content enough to put his hands on her hips and enjoy the view.

“How many women is this?”

Some time had passed. Damen turned his head to see Laurent’s boots, speckled with fine dust, Laurent’s leather-clad legs and Laurent’s blank face, giving him a neutral sort of look. He should have known.

Damen said, “Are you here to join in?”

Laurent had spoken in Akielon. The Vaskian girl didn’t seem perturbed by his addressing Damen, or by his being there at all; she kept moving above him, and Damen’s body kept responding. He shouldn’t – it wasn’t done like this in Akielos. When lovemaking was witnessed by others, in soldiers’ barracks and brothels and the like, the interlopers would quietly excuse themselves and walk away. They wouldn’t stand there calmly like Laurent was doing, as if he were watching a play in the theatre.

“Even if I wanted,” said Laurent, conversationally. “I doubt there’s a woman out there worth being booted out of the line of succession.” And then, “How many women?”

“That’s none of your business,” said Damen. He returned his attention to the girl. His own body had begun to grow drowsy as the night wore on, but the girl was fresh and very intent in getting what she wanted. She had small, pointy nipples. He thumbed at her breast, and she leaned down to kiss him.

“Touch her cunt.”

Laurent’s voice made him jump. Damen was on his back by the fire; Laurent had crouched down inches from their bodies so that he could watch. It made Damen shiver. He hadn’t been expecting Laurent to speak – like _that_ , about a Vaskian woman, in Akielon.

“What, is she to provide for herself? She is already doing all the work. Touch her.” It was unreal, to hear Laurent saying these words. “Over the folds, do it slow. Run your other hand across her back,” said Laurent. “Like that. Now, over the side of her body.”

Earlier, he had tried to avoid thinking of Laurent while he was at the coupling fire. Now Laurent had wormed his way into it, as he always did; and the next time Damen bedded a woman he would remember this moment, thoughts of Laurent never letting him go.

“Dip a finger inside,” Laurent said, and Damen did. “She’s fucking you. Feel that.” He did. It was wet, like this, with a woman. Damen touched her and felt the contrast between soft curls and the smoothness underneath, the sloppy friction where they were joined.

He was overly warm, hyperaware of the flash of pale hair at the corner of his vision. Above him, Laurent kept talking. “Sit up,” he said. “The angle is better. Kiss her breast, on the underside.” Damen would have thought Laurent wouldn’t know anything about breasts. But he was leaning in now, watching closely. A little closer still, and he would be resting his chin on Damen’s shoulder. Damen thought: I could kiss him. He could turn his head now, and catch Laurent’s lips with his own.

“Put her nipple into your mouth,” Laurent was saying. “Suck on it – you’re good at that. You could try biting.”

The girl bucked in his lap. So did Damen, at the feeling of Laurent’s breath ghosting over his neck. He was sensitive there, although not as much as Laurent. Sitting like this, at an angle, put a strain on the muscles of his stomach; his abdomen was gleaming with sweat. Laurent didn’t seem to notice.

“Run your hand over her thigh. Are her legs as smooth as they look?” They were. The girl had muscled legs, with long fine hair, and Damen felt goosebumps under his palm.

“Your other hand,” said Laurent. “Press over her nub with the with the pad of your thumb. You have callused fingers. She’d like that.”

She did. Did Laurent like that? Laurent had calluses too, not as pronounced, his hands not as rough. Laurent was touching him now. He swept away hair, put his lips to Damen’s ear. “Halvik said you would be happy like this. Being mounted.”

Damen closed his eyes. There was a familiar pressure building up low in his body. The rush in his veins, the sweat cooling on his skin. Laurent, exhilarating, next to him.

“Was she right?” Laurent asked. “Is this what you wanted? Being ridden until you burst.”

Of all of Laurent’s talents, his voice was the deadliest. Damen came just as Laurent had said, in a burst. His orgasm and the rhythm of his fingers brought the girl off; she went tight around him and Damen shuddered, biting on his lip. His limbs felt very heavy.

The girl’s head had come to rest on his chest, over his collarbone. Damen brushed her sweat-damp hair from her face and turned to meet Laurent’s eyes, dark and intent. Now that he was free from the haze of arousal, the magnitude of what they’d just been doing dawned on him. His face burned.

He said, “Like to watch?”

Laurent flinched as if he’d slapped him. Then he turned and walked away, without a word, every line of his body signalling tension.

Damen debated remaining where he was, for a moment or two. But the pull he so often felt towards Laurent made itself known, overwhelming in his intensity, urging him to go.

He followed.

The tent Laurent had been assigned was nothing like the overly elaborate silken palace he usually slept in, but it was comfortable and well-lit, padded in linens and furs. Laurent had sat on the pallet and was removing his boots. He looked up when Damen entered.

“What, you think you can fuck me now, too?”

Damen found he could barely stand up. He hadn’t bothered tying up any of his laces; his shirt and jerkin were open on his chest, his boots unlaced, and he’d held up his trousers with one hand all the way to the tent. Laurent’s sleeping pallet was large and it looked warm, and it was the only one in the tent. He let himself fall down on it, and Laurent scoffed at the presumption.

“Do you think I’ll let you put your cock in me,” said Laurent. “After you’ve been had by half the clan?”

Damen turned his head. There was a lantern behind Laurent, and the backlight turned his hair into a golden halo; or a crown.

“If you’ll have me,” he said. “We could – whatever you want.”

Laurent seemed to sweeten at that, noticeably. He turned away his head to hide his face, which had melted into something quite unlike his usual composure. “It’s the _hakesh_ speaking,” he said. “I will be generous, and won’t remind you of your words in the morning.”

Damen didn’t think it was the _hakesh_. He thought that it was just Laurent. But he remained silent, and watched with some wonder as Laurent moved in closer and slowly, carefully, brought his hands to Damen’s shoulders to divest him of his jerkin, throwing it to the side.

“Don’t squirm.” Laurent’s touch was light and attentive, undressing him with practised moves. He pulled off Damen’s boots and his trousers, snorting something about barbarians when he stripped Damen from the waist down to find him half hard. Then he laughed, when Damen’s arms wouldn’t quite work as they should have and he ended up trapped with his own shirtsleeves.

“There,” said Laurent, once he was done. The shirt had tangled hopelessly around Damen’s waist, turned inside out, and it proved a surprisingly effective form of restraint. Soon Damen found himself laughing, too, a liquid warmth that spread inside of his chest and to his whole body.

“There,” he said, more softly. The bedcovers dipped when he pressed a clothed knee next to Damen’s shoulder. “I’ll have you like one of those Vaskian women, lover,” said Laurent. “Ride you.” He put his hand on Damen’s cheek and Damen leaned into it, and he made a sound in his throat that he couldn’t stop.

His eyes fell closed. There were noises; Laurent shifting, a rustle of clothing, a faint smell of smoke. Laurent had put out the lanterns. It was pitch-dark. In the distance, he could hear the drums and the sounds of the fires.

He searched in the dark, blindly, for Laurent’s waist, his shoulders, his neck, so he could pull him closer and kiss his lips. Laurent licked into his mouth, slowly. “ _Hakesh_ ,” he said. “I like it.” It was sweet and it burned the mouth; of course Laurent would like it.

They kissed for quite some time, lazy and quiet, and then Laurent pushed him back on the furs and set himself above him. In the dark, Damen couldn’t see what he would do next. He traced the planes of Laurent’s chest, idly. He thought of the coupling fire, Laurent’s word, telling him to play with the girl’s breasts. He pressed a blunt nail against the nub of Laurent’s nipple.

“Not quite the same thing,” said Laurent, dryly. “You know, some men in Vere have them pierced. I’ve heard it’s very pleasurable, after.”

That sounded like something Veretians would do. “You don’t like jewellery.” But his mind went back to the inn and Laurent wearing the sapphire earring, and it sent a new surge of arousal down his body. Before Nesson, Damen hadn’t thought much of jewellery, either.

Damen skimmed the back of his fingers over Laurent’s ribcage, his abdomen. He traced the length of Laurent’s cock, teasing, then pushed back up and found Laurent’s hole, slick with oil. Laurent clasped Damen’s fingers with his own and lead him where he wanted him, up and inside, together.

“I don’t – ” Laurent paused. “I don’t appreciate that they had you first. But I like it that I’ll have you last.”

 _Have you last_. Damen shivered. “Do it.”

He curled his fingers inside Laurent just to feel his body clench, then pulled his hand back and settled it on Laurent’s hip, enjoying the feeling of Laurent above him like this. His cock, hard and ready, brushed tantalising against Laurent’s waiting hole; any moment, Damen could have thrust up and slid into him. He waited, bursting with anticipation.

Laurent sank down on him gently, with a small humming sound that was loud as the crack of a whip in the cramped tent. Damen couldn’t see him but he could feel all of it, the stretch and the slow drag of his cock inside Laurent’s rim, Laurent’s minute twitches and soft groans.

“Outside,” said Laurent. “Earlier. I liked watching you. I wasn’t expecting I would like it.” He said it low, like a secret. “I shouldn’t like it. But I did.”

He bent down to taste the salt on Damen’s skin. “You were. You just stood there and let them come to you, and they all wanted you.” Laurent clenched around him in time with his words. It had to be deliberate; it was maddening. “I _liked_ it.” He said it again, like it was significant. He sounded strangely shy.

Damen thought of Laurent’s bloodless composure in the ring in Arles, the way he held himself against the desensitizing carnality of the court, and realised that he probably didn’t know how to let himself enjoy it. “People like all sort of things,” he said, and thought of his own illicit thrills, Laurent’s voice in his ear.

“What kind of things do you like?” asked Laurent, who was the embodiment of every single thing Damen had ever liked. He wasn’t going to say it, and give Laurent that sort of advantage.

Instead, “I like what we are doing now.” Rocking into Laurent slowly, slight strokes that left him almost completely inside. Being at ease with each other. The sight of Laurent in a blindfold earlier, the contrast of red lips and soft black cloth, and pale hair that looked softer still. He liked the small tent and the sound of the drums out by the fires, the furs tickling his back and the feeling that they were alone together in a bubble in time, far removed from the dust of the road and the threat of war.

“I like it here,” said Damen, and Laurent stopped moving and let out a sound much like a snort and Damen realised how perhaps he might have sounded.

“Clearly,” said Laurent, and then he gave a very deliberate roll of his hips that had Damen moan, and he felt Laurent shiver above him. “Are you ever going to tell me how many women?”

“You can ask Halvik,” said Damen, who might have told Laurent had he been less obnoxious about asking early on, and was now refusing out of sheer principle. Laurent made another curious sound, much like a huff.

Damen said, “If you were wondering, I liked that thing you did. Just now. Do it again.”

Laurent did it again. Damen had a smile on his face, he realised. Laurent probably did, too; the mood had turned light and playful around them, and the air was bursting with sparks. This was something else Damen liked, joyful lovemaking. It was monumental, to be having this with Laurent. He had never imagined it could come to this.

When went to sleep, he was still smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to [Exy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/exyking/pseuds/exyking) for looking this over, and for being very gracious in the face of our ongoing stylistic disagreements.


	10. Ravenel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _*emerges from the depths of academic despair, with smut*_
> 
> This is marked as "Drama" in my outline. Chapter features some angst and rough sex; if it's readable it's only thanks to [stillwaterseas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenixflight/pseuds/stillwaterseas).

It was afternoon when they rode into Ravenel, after hours of hurrying on dusty roads all the way from Acquitart. Laurent was in the front, eye-catching. He looked good, riding proudly at the head of a troop that turned into so much more than what they were supposed to be. Like he belonged. Damen couldn’t take his eyes away from him.

They were received by Lord Touars, a hardened borderman, and Councillor Guion, who was dressed in all his court finery and looked starkly out of place. Touars and his Captain made their distaste for Damen evident, even though they must have more than a few drops of Akielon blood themselves, this close to the border.

Laurent paid them no mind. “He’s coming with me,” he said of Damen, as if that was only natural.

There was something about Laurent insisting that he should come with him into the hall that had Damen feel a strange sort of warmth. Laurent wanted him at his side. He hardly minded the subtle assertion of authority that Laurent’s treatment implied if he was being used to assert authority much more overtly on the Regent’s staunchest supporters.

The atmosphere in the hall was tense. Touars’s captain Enguerran was there as well, and so was Touars’s advisor, who spoke in gravelly tones with a thick accent that sounded almost lowborn. The men described the situation on the border, spoke about Makedon’s armies and tensions between Nikandros and his new King. Damen listened, trying to look like he wasn’t.

At one point, Laurent stretched one arm in Damen’s direction, hand holding an empty goblet. Damen, who hadn’t been expecting it, blinked once before taking the water pitcher from where it laid next to the border maps, refilling Laurent’s cup. Laurent brought it to his lips and drank. It would have taken Laurent half a heartbeat to refill his own cup, but he hadn’t. Damen caught Lord Touars’s eyes on him, following his movements as he reset the pitcher back next to Laurent’s elbow.

Later, the discussion devolved into petty accusations and name-calling, as it was predictable. Laurent, Guion said, was far too friendly with Akielos. Laurent’s expression was of bemused surprise. Hadn’t he been censured many times in front of the court in Arles for not supporting the Regent’s new alliance loudly enough?

“When my uncle took my lands, he accused me of warmongering,” Laurent spoke to Guion, ostensibly, but he was looking at Lord Touars. “Spoke at length of the importance of peace. Perhaps I’m just taking example from him.”

“That was before,” said Guion, and Damen had not need to wonder what ‘before’ meant, because Guion’s stare found him, searchingly, much like it had been in Ios the first time they’d seen each other and Damen had been bound and gagged and covered in slave paint. “You’ve been bedding that barbarian.”

“I thought that was why you gave him to me.” The quick look Laurent spared Damen, over his shoulder, was just as supremely unconcerned as the tone of his words. “What a man does in bed has no impact on his ability to rule. Isn’t that what the Council always said about Uncle?”

“’A man’. You’re just a green boy.” Guion, too, wasn’t truly speaking to Laurent. Lord Touars, almost despite himself, nodded slightly at the words. “The Akielon slave turned your head, and turned you against your people.”

Damen wanted to speak. He wanted to say something, that none of this was fair or even sensible, that Laurent’s desire to avoid war was the mark of a leader and not a weakness. But any reaction on his part would have made the matter worse, and so he stood, and watched, and found himself wishing that he hadn’t come into the hall.

Then Laurent spoke, and his voice was very cold, the clipped tone he got when he was about to lose all shreds of control. “Is that it?” he said. “Do you think a foreigner has me in thrall?”

Then he turned around on his chair to stare at Damen, and the look in his eyes was so alien that Damen startled with the intensity of it. It took him a moment to remember where he’d last seen it.

“Come here,” Laurent said, pleasantly, the words he usually spoke to tell Damen to come to bed. Then, there had always been an unspoken offer. Here and now, there was no question that he could refuse.

Damen thought he knew what was coming. He searched Laurent’s eyes, to see if he could see even a hint of regret, and found none. He took the two steps to Laurent’s chair with his limbs heavy, a strange, shocked dizziness in his head that he could not place. He had been hit on his head on the practice field once, and it had felt almost like this.

“Kneel,” Laurent said, as Damen had known he would, and he had done this just the other night, willingly, and found it inebriating. Now there were half a dozen people watching, and if he did, they would see. If he didn’t, it would be worse.

He knelt. Laurent’s hand cupped his cheek, stroking the skin gently, playing with the hair behind his ear as if petting some wild animal, easily spooked. The stone was cold through the cloth at his knees, and there were people watching. Laurent’s eyes were –he averted his gaze. He couldn’t look at him.

“See.” Laurent’s words weren’t for him. They went above his head and to the lords in the room, enjoying the spectacle. “You sent him for me to break in,” he told Guion. “I’m very good at anything I put my mind to.” He’d leaned in very close, and Damen thought for a moment Laurent was going to kiss him. He didn’t; he put his lips to Damen’s forehead, feather-light, and Damen hadn’t meant to shiver at the touch, but he did.

There were more caresses, all of them deceptively delicate, the press of Laurent’s thumb tracing the contours of his lips. He pulled on Damen’s bottom lip with the pad of his finger, guided Damen’s head to rest on the hollow of his shoulder, stroking the back of his neck all the while.

Then he was released, abruptly, and found himself on his knees on cold stone with his head hanging low like a rag doll.

“I’m sure there are rooms readied for my use in the fort.” Laurent’s voice washed above him like icy water. “Please have the slave escorted there, while we finish up.”

At his words, Touars’s servant, who’d been standing discreetly in a corner of the room, made his way over. Damen went to his feet, his legs heavy with lead, hands shaking with anger and a perverse kind of shame, and something else he didn’t want to place.

He didn’t look to Laurent as he left. The door closed behind him with a heavy thud of wood, and the soles of his boots echoed loudly against the floor.

Laurent’s rooms, when he reached them, were just as overdone as he’d expected, with gilded chairs and gaudy tapestries. The main room held only one bed, and Damen turned his head away – there were chairs in the anteroom that looked more inviting than the press of Laurent’s body against his own.

Damen didn’t think much while he waited for Laurent. If he let his thoughts run wild, he didn’t know what would happen. He sat on the corner of the bed with his hands in his lap, staring at the tapestry on the opposite wall. It was of a new year celebration, men and women in a flowery field welcoming the springtime. The sky in the tapestry was golden silk, as gold as the sun and the blossoms on the trees. In the background, there were figures fucking.

Damen closed his eyes and thought back to the Vaskian camp. It had been simpler there. He could still feel the phantom touch of Laurent’s hands roaming over his face, and the worst thing was that he’d liked it, and he shivered when he thought about it. He had hated how public it had been, but the twist in his gut he felt at the memory wasn’t of distaste. He was angry, unspeakably angry like he hadn’t been since Arles.

His head shot up at the sound of Laurent entering his quarters, then he deliberately composed himself. He remained where he was, palms flat on his knees and shoulders arched with tension. He saw his own wariness reflect back in Laurent’s features before it was replaced with insufferable self-composure.

Laurent looked away first.

“I’ll do whatever it takes to ensure success,” he said. Damen hadn’t asked. “I won’t have my lords doubting me.”

He didn’t reply. It wasn’t worth the effort, or the breath, and he wouldn’t give Laurent the chance to twist facts to suit his own truth.

Some time passed. Laurent busied himself around the room, familiarizing himself with doors and the sight from each window, making sure his clothing and personal effects had been arranged into their proper places, moving around like a buzzing bee in a garden.

Finally, Laurent seemingly decided that his annoyance at being ignored outweighed the blow to his pride at speaking first. The pride of others didn’t seem to concern him in the least. He said, “I’m not going to apologize.” And then, “In my place, you would have done the same thing.”

The idea of Laurent in Damen’s place was unthinkable. “In your place,” Damen said. “I wouldn’t have all my nobles thinking me a coward.”

Laurent said, calmly “Are you sulking?”

Sulking. He stood up to his feet, so that Laurent had to look up at him. “I’m angry,” he said. “You made me…” He couldn’t finish.

Laurent was very close. His voice was soft when he spoke. “It’s a bit late to pretend you don’t like it.”

The way he said it, low and haughty, made Damen want to jolt that arrogance out of him. He gripped with his hand Laurent’s shoulder, hard.

“Get your hands off me.”

“It’s a bit late,” Damen threw back, “to pretend you don’t like it.”

Laurent didn’t meet his eyes. He breathed, his body stiff with tension, and then he seemed to go lax in Damen’s hold. He said, “Not the face.”

Damen startled, taking a step back. “What?” He did not loosen his grip. The last time he’d put his hand on Laurent like this, he’d let himself be shocked into lowering his guard, and Laurent had slapped him and had him flogged. If anything, the memory made him grip harder.

“If you hit me on the face, it will show. There will have to be consequences.”

That made him let go of Laurent’s arm as if it burned. “I’m not going to hit you.” He’d wanted to, at times, when Laurent said something particularly outrageous, or in the practice field, with steel in hand, but not like this, cold-blooded retribution.

“You’re right.” Laurent looked away. “It’s not like I wouldn’t like it.”

And then, when Damen didn’t move. “Coward,” he said. “You’re only good at taking it. You’d let me do anything, wouldn’t you.” He was breathing heavily, they both were. “I’ll be having dinner with Touars, later. Perhaps I’ll take you with me. On a leash.”

Damen said, “Turn around”

When Laurent didn’t comply he pushed him, roughly slammed him against the tapestried wall hard enough to knock the breath from his chest.

“This is not–”

“Shut up,” Damen said. “Shut up, I don’t want to listen to you.” He’d grasped both of Laurent’s wrists into his hand, pinned them to the wall above his head. With the other he reached around to his front, feeling the taut planes of Laurent’s body under his hand.

“I think it’s you who’s only good at taking it. You’ll take anything I’d give to you,” he said. “I could do whatever I want.” Laurent had said as much, once. “I could–”

“You’re still talking.” The back of Laurent’s neck was pink, his body hot under his clothes. “It’s boring me.”

Because Laurent wouldn’t shut up, Damen let go of his wrists to press one hand over his mouth. With the other he skimmed over Laurent’s chest, then lower to pluck at the tight lacing over his crotch. It wasn't a surprise that Laurent was growing hard from being shoved against the wall with a hand pressed over his lips. His face was flush with heat against Damen's palm, and he'd thrown back his head with abandon to rest in the crook of Damen's shoulder.

One-handed, Damen didn't have the skill to undo the ties of Laurent's trousers, not like Laurent would in his place. He tugged, frustrated, but that only seemed to tighten the knots even more. Laurent hissed, squirming in place, sneaking his hands down to free himself.

“Idiot,” he mumbled against Damen's fingers.

Damen, who'd had it quite enough with being insulted for one day, pushed him against the wall with enough strength that Laurent had to turn his face to the side so that he could breathe, his cheek pressed over the tapestry. His eyes were closed, his features slack and softened. The sight of him like that – giving himself up, loose-limbed and quiet – got Damen groaning in his throat. He rubbed his clothed cock against Laurent's ass, thinking back to Touars’s hall, Laurent's unflappable composure. All the anger he'd felt, all the frustration, had gone into wanting Laurent to feel it.

Laurent yanked down his trousers to his knees then reached behind blindly, grasping for Damen's hips. There was something obscene about the thought of fucking Laurent like this, half dressed, still in his shiny boots with his cock dripping wet against Touars’s pretty tapestry.

He let Laurent help him untie his laces then bent forward, putting his mouth to the back of Laurent's head with their bodies pressed close together, Laurent's arms trapped between them.

“Keep your hands behind your back.”

Laurent didn’t acknowledge him but his body trembled, slightly, against Damen's chest. He made no move to free himself.

His mouth looked soft and yielding, half-open, his lips wet. Damen traced the curve of them with his fingers, and Laurent arched back against him. It felt good, the slick drag of his cock against the back of Laurent's thighs, but he wanted more.

He pushed his fingers past Laurent's lips. They went in easily.

“I’m going to–” He stopped, awkward, the words feeling superfluous. They both knew what was going to happen.

Blood was rushing in Damen’s ears. Laurent sucked at the fingers inside his mouth with a little flutter of his eyelashes, and the flicker of his wet tongue got Damen reeling. He hollowed his cheeks, as if he were making a production of it, and Damen couldn’t look away.

The slide of his spit-wet fingers inside of Laurent was tight and slow, but not uncomfortable. Damen’s mind went to the last time they’d done this, among the furs of the Vaskian tent – Laurent had been laughing then. It felt like a lifetime away. When he pulled his fingers out, Laurent let out a slow trembling breath.

He grasped at Laurent’s thigh, pushing away the long hem of his flowing undershirt. He hitched the leg up and Laurent's whole body arched with it, balancing up on his toes to avoid the strain. With his other hand he guided himself in, using the wet tip of his cock to push past the initial stretch. Damen's breath was rough to his own ears. Being inside Laurent like this felt more intense somehow. He pressed in further, slowly, and Laurent made a keening sound.

Damen liked the stretch. He liked the tight friction on his cock and the feeling of Laurent opening up around him, pushing back like he couldn't wait for this either. He liked the low hiss Laurent let out when he finally slid all the way inside, the way he squirmed on his cock with his eyes still shut.

He wondered what other noises he could get Laurent to make. Laurent’s jaw was clenched tight, his face tinged pink. The only sound in the room was the panting of their breath. The last time, in the Vaskian tent, there had been soft conversation; now the air between them was tense with uneasiness. Perhaps it was better this way, Damen thought, thinking of the cutting betrayal he’d felt in the hall when Laurent had – Damen adjusted his grip on Laurent’s leg, and thrust.

Laurent groaned. Damen spread his legs wider for balance, then thrust back in harder. Laurent’s eyes fell open. Damen found that he liked Laurent looking at him,  _ seeing _ him, feeling this. He kept up a fast pace, focusing on the physical sensations of Laurent’s body and the hot pressure of arousal building up inside him.

He relished Laurent’s small reactions. At one point, when Damen’s thighs had begun to ache with the strain, he pulled all the way out and pushed Laurent’s leg up a little higher, calculating the angle. Then he thrust inside, hard and deep, and Laurent seemed to sway in place. He did it again and Laurent’s shoulders jerked against the wall, his leg buckling.

Laurent’s arms twitched behind him. “Keep them there,” Damen reminded him. Then, condescending, “I can hold you up, if you can’t take it.”

Laurent didn’t reply. Damen fucked into him again, hitting that spot that made Laurent’s body shake. Once more and Laurent stumbled, limbs weak with strain and effort and arousal. Damen reached with his free hand around Laurent’s front, keeping him in place, pushing him back against his cock while he rocked into him with quick shallow thrusts. Pressed so close, he could feel the minute ripplings in Laurent’s body.

Then Laurent groaned low in his throat and clenched tight around him, frantic, his hips bucking. Damen realised he’d come, like this, from being held in place and fucked. He hadn’t even touched him. Just the thought of that sent Damen over the edge, and he muffled a moan against Laurent’s shoulder as he spilled inside of him.

After, Damen stumbled back, dumbfounded, feeling wrung out. He watched Laurent straighten himself back up, very slowly, holding his trousers up around his waist with one hand as if that could shield his body from Damen’s sight.

Laurent kept his face down, staring at the floor.  Had he been too rough? Damen thought of Laurent in the hall and Laurent smiling in the Vaskian tent, and he couldn’t separate them. Then Laurent took a step, and Damen saw him swaying in his heeled riding boots.

He moved closer, grasping Laurent’s arm. Laurent pulled back sharply.

“I don’t need assistance standing up,” he said, but Damen knew his legs must feel weak and his arms would be numb–  from being pressed between their bodies while Damen pushed into him, just because Damen had told him so.

“Laurent.”

Laurent looked at him. There was a red imprint on his right cheek where his face had been pressed against the tapestried wall, and his lip was red from being bitten into. Unthinkingly, Damen reached out with his finger to brush at Laurent’s face. This time Laurent allowed it, like a wary tomcat letting himself be petted. Damen felt a twinge of pleased surprise and he did it again, bolder. Laurent closed his eyes at the touch, breathing quietly.

Then he stepped back on shaking legs, and walked away.

Damen went to sit on the bed. He took off his boots and his uniform jerkin, then he half-laid half-sad over the silk pillows and wondered whether Laurent would join him. He found that most of his anger at Laurent had melted away. It was still there, deep-seated like burning embers, but fickle, like it could blow away any moment. Perhaps Laurent would – he wouldn’t say sorry, not Laurent, not ever; but perhaps he would come to the bed and bring Damen a cup of water and kiss him on the lips, and that would be as good as an apology from Laurent.

Like earlier, it was obvious that Laurent didn’t know what to do. Once again Damen watched him move around the room, near frantic. He washed his face in a stone basin and stripped of his clothes. There was a red mark on his left thigh where Damen had been holding it up, so he could fuck him better, and Laurent pressed the circle of his own fingers against it as if remembering the sensation. He cleaned up with a wet cloth between his legs, wincing as he did so, and something inside Damen jolted at the sight. Then he spared a long measured look at the wall where they’d been fucking and went to pour some water on the stain they’d left on the tapestry. Damen felt himself flush, thinking of Touars’s servants who’d come into the room later, but he resolutely told himself that servants in Vere probably witnessed worse spectacles all the time.

The possessive pleasure he’d felt watching Laurent compose himself gave way to uncertainty as time passed. Laurent redressed himself in fresh clothes, picked purposefully so that he could dress by himself, and sat on one elaborate chair to tie his boots back on.

“What are you doing?”

He thought of Laurent’s penchant for slipping away from his guards, his habit of riding at strange hours to calm his head. But Laurent said, “Going to dinner. I told you.”

The reaction to being reminded of their furious conversation earlier must have shown on his face, because Laurent frowned. “You’re angry again.” And then, “I can’t stay h– Did you think I would stay?” He stood up straighter; his voice went from hesitant to presumptuous in a heartbeat. “With you? Did you think I would – lay next to you and–”

When Laurent got like this, he could keep going for hours. Damen turned to his side, and let him talk to himself.

He was tired, in more ways than one, even though the sky outside was just turning dark with twilight. He shut his eyes closed and heard the sounds of Laurent leaving the room and then, later, of servants coming in to light up the fire.

He must have been sleeping when Laurent came back, but he woke up briefly in the middle of the night to Laurent tracing patterns over his chest, light circles around the scar on his shoulder. Some other time Damen might have done him the courtesy of pretending to be asleep, but now he opened his eyes to Laurent watching him. When Laurent caught him looking he pulled away sharply; then he sighed, turning to lay on his back.

“I was just…” He didn’t finish.

It was late, and Damen was still tired, and soon enough he found himself growing drowsy again. He fell asleep under the weight of Laurent’s stare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to that one discord chat with Mist and Joss about how Laurent should get fucked against a tapestry, that turned into several more conversations about details, logistics, and positions, featuring stick figures drawing and real-life reenactment. You ladies are an inspiration ❤


	11. The mountains

They were hiding behind the rocks up on the mountainside, watching the Akielon column march.

Leaving the rest of the troop behind had been a monumentally stupid decision on Laurent’s part, and the only reason Damen hadn’t said so was that he was still too annoyed to waste any more breath on him. Laurent could end up captured by Akielons for all he cared, Damen had thought as they’d set off from the camp, but then Makedon’s men had appeared from behind the crest and Laurent had gone very still. In the silence, Damen could almost hear the buzz of Laurent’s thoughts flying through his brain. The realisation that he had miscalculated.

Damen looked from Laurent to the Akielon soldiers. “We should take cover.”

They did, with some nervousness, hiding in a shallow cave Laurent had found. Sitting on his saddle blanket at the back of the cave, Damen’s eyes found Laurent’s body in the shadows. “I thought you would’ve run back as soon as you saw those men.”

“Why, do you plan to capture me? You should know,” Laurent said. “I wouldn’t go easy.”

The thought was tempting. Outside among the hills, surrounded by Akielon outriders, he could just have waited. They would have been found eventually and taken into custody. At Makedon’s camp, Damen would have been offered anything he could possibly want. But he only wanted Laurent.

Damen wouldn’t be harsh, not like Laurent had been to him. He would just – he wanted to see Laurent, for once, not perfectly in control. He wanted him stripped of his impenetrable layers and cold composure. Wanted to see him undone, wholly and completely. He wanted Laurent to be his, just like Damen had been made Laurent’s, to be able to have him whenever he wished, with no tricks and no games.

“You’re thinking about it.”

He couldn’t read Laurent’s voice. Curious, perhaps, or wary. “Yes.”

Laurent scoffed. “I don’t think it would be that good. I’m not the one here who likes to get on his knees.”

Deceptively calm, Damen asked, “Are you sure?”

A thought made way in his mind, like a poisonous vine: some part of Laurent, strapped down and carefully kept in check, would enjoy captivity. Oh, he’d fight him every step of the way – but he would relish it also, to be constrained and helpless, give in to his deepest urges and tell himself he had no choice as he often, painfully clearly, longed to.

“I think,” he heard himself saying, “you would like it. Giving up control.”

They were close enough that Damen could reach out and brush the back of his fingers across Laurent’s cheek. Laurent shivered, and turned his face into the touch. “You’d be alone. Except for me.”

He didn’t know where all this darkness was coming from. Damen watched Laurent’s throat move as he swallowed, his face pale in the penumbra. “Are you still angry at me?”

“Laurent,” he said, softly. “I am furious.”

Laurent shuffled close on his knees until their bodies were flush together, Damen’s back pressed against the cold stone of the cave. He put his hands on Damen’s shoulders, meeting his eyes. “That’s understandable. It is a good thing that you don’t have fanciful notions about me.”

Laurent’s touch skimmed the expanse of Damen’s chest over his clothes, then down to his waist. Laurent moved to unbuckle his belt and Damen spread his legs to accommodate him.

“Are you trying to persuade me not to give you to Nikandros?” he asked, voice hoarse. He wouldn’t put it past Laurent.

Laurent made a sound in his throat like a laugh.  His hands found Damen’s cock and stroke firmly. “Maybe I’m just rewarding you for good behaviour,” he said. “Kiss me.”

Then he pulled back, considering. “Do men kiss slaves in Akielos? In this little revenge fantasy of yours,” Laurent said. “Would you—”

Damen took his lips and didn’t answer.

With his eyes closed he cradled Laurent’s face in his hand, deepening the kiss. Laurent was on his knees above him, his hand thumbing at the head of Damen’s cock. The other had reached further behind, palm cradling his sac, fingers pressing into the sensitive skin at the back of his balls. He groaned into Laurent’s mouth.

His thoughts went back to the Akielon camp, if he’d taken Laurent there. Laurent, he knew that with absolute certainty, would hate Damianos. But Laurent had hated him once before; this time, too, it wouldn’t last. Surrounded by unfamiliar enemies, he would see that Damen cared for him. They would find each other again. They would play new games. Laurent would be vicious, obnoxious, bewitching. He would still try to tell Damen what to do as if he had the upper hand. The thought made him shiver. He brought his hands to unlace Laurent’s jacket like he’d done so many times, so he could suck on the skin of his neck, turn it red with marks. It wasn’t quite a gold collar, but it was close enough.

He came tucked into Laurent’s body, limbs shaking, head nestled in the crook of Laurent’s neck. He could feel Laurent’s short, shallow breaths, small bursts of air against his cheek.

“I didn’t really think this through,” Laurent said, priggish, once he’d pulled away. Damen watched him wipe his white-stained hand over the coarse rock, every line of his face conveying fastidiousness. He finished by cleaning up his palm with a finely embroidered handkerchief, and the way he pursed his lips when meeting Damen’s eyes suggested that it was all his fault it was ruined. Damen laughed.

“Are you sufficiently persuaded?” Laurent said, light. “We’ll be going up the hills.”

They climbed up the mountain among the bushes and the oak trees, and there they met the Akielon scout. Damen hadn't been expecting it. Laurent hadn't been expecting it either and he stumbled, taken by surprise when his horse fell splashing into the torrent. Time seemed to slow down to nothingness.

Damen’s whole body shook with the horrible realisation that Laurent was going to die, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He would watch it happen, in front of his eyes, and then Laurent would be gone, his bright eyes closed forever, and all they'd shared together would be nothing but a memory.

He threw the sword.

It was a desperate move; at best, he'd thought, it might buy Laurent some time. He hadn't expected it would work but it did, incredibly, and then he could do nothing but rush to Laurent and run his hand all over his body, just to make sure — he couldn't trust his eyes, he needed to feel. Laurent was alive, and unharmed, and staring up at Damen with a look that was nothing but pure marvel.

“You,” he said. He looked, for once in his life, at a loss for words. He grasped Damen's hands at the wrists, gently, freed himself from his hold. He leaned up on his tiptoes to press a kiss to Damen's mouth, slow and close-mouthed. His lips were warm. He was alive.

Later, Laurent paused with one foot in the stirrup of Damen's saddle and the other still firm of the ground. “I didn't think,” he said, dazed. “Even after...”

“I'm not so angry at you that I would see you dead,” Damen heard himself say. “Mount up.”

“Angry enough to sell me to an Akielon troop?”

“Maybe,” said Damen. The topic of Akielon troops had ceased to be amusing and was now a danger.

The mood was sombre as they rode in shallow waters, alone with their thoughts in the quiet of the woods. Damen could feel the dampness of Laurent’s clothes against his back. The closeness was familiar; the position less so, with Laurent’s hips pressing against him from behind. Their bodies shifted together with the rhythm of the horse, rising and falling on the saddle along the undulating stream. Laurent’s arms closed around him, and Damen’s breath went shallow.

He kept the horse on course with the stream, away from the Akielon army, Laurent’s comfortable weight on the back of the saddle. When they were far enough, he suggested they settled down for the night.

“You know, your men will be deciding whether to send out search parties right now, wondering where you’ve gone,” Damen said. “You’re going to give Jord grey hair.”

“I have left word I wouldn’t be back before tomorrow,” Laurent said. “Jord should be used to it by now.”

The words were on the tip of his tongue: Laurent shouldn’t have gone in the first place. Even Damen, who had been accused of risking his own safety enough times that he could remember Nikandros’s lecture by heart, wouldn’t have dreamed of being so careless. Sometimes, it was as though Laurent didn’t care whether he lived or died.

He kept his words to himself. He kindled a fire and Laurent went to check on the horses, and when he returned he walked to Damen with a familiar hooded gaze and a renewed air of determination.

Laurent said, “That was a two-handed sword that you threw.”

More often than not, Damen practised with the Veretian cross-hilted sword one handed. Laurent would know that. He thought he knew what was coming. “It was a lucky throw.”

Laurent was close enough to touch now, crowding him against the nearest tree. It was novel. Usually, Laurent preferred to be the one with his back to the wall, liked to pull on Damen’s clothes and draw him close. Damen wondered if he was going to be kissed, if Laurent was going to take his face in hands and taste him slowly.

Eminently practical, Laurent did not bother with kissing. His hands went to the laces of Damen’s trousers and he smiled self-satisfied when Damen’s hips bucked instinctively under his touch. He moved briskly, efficiently, as if he had a mission planned in details and limited time to carry it out. It was a waste for a man of Laurent’s beauty to approach lovemaking with such impersonality. Damen had thought he’d cured him of that nonsense weeks ago.

“Is this another reward?” he said, and then, “Kiss me.”

Laurent’s fingers closed around his cock, and he felt himself begin to stir in Laurent’s hands. “More or less,” Laurent spoke carefully.

And then, gracefully, he went to his knees on the ground.

It was as though all the breath was knocked out of him. Damen made a choked sound; he didn’t have enough air left for anything else. He stared, looking and not quite believing. Laurent’s bright head, his long lashes, soft lips. Laurent, kneeling in front of him, his cock inches from Laurent’s mouth. His arousal flared. Laurent was going to do this.

Damen waited, too stunned to speak.

Slowly, carefully, Laurent angled his head. He licked a stripe along the shaft, and Damen’s thigh trembled. He closed his lips around the head of Damen’s cock and sucked, pressing the flat of his tongue against the tip. Damen could hear the sound of his own breathing, loud and frantic, and the crackling fire in the distance. Laurent’s hand was on his hip, palm spread, keeping him in place. Laurent’s mouth, sweeter than it’d ever been, traced sloppy kisses over his length and then retreated, wet imprints burning in the cool night air.

Damen stood, knees trembling, lost in the thrill of this moment. Shadows of flames danced across Laurent’s fair skin, bathing him in gold, and Damen watched him watch Damen right back, considering. Laurent applied himself to sucking Damen’s cock as he would to duelling deft forays and quick retreats, every move calculated and deliberate. His tongue was wicked,  making Damen shake, his every move carefully calculated. When Laurent took him fully for the first time Damen was startled. Laurent made it look easy, smooth and practised, and threw his hand back and groaned. In the dark, among the trees, it came out sounding almost animalistic, impossibly wild.

His hands clawed into the soft bark of the tree, searching for purchase. He was – he had his cock in Laurent’s mouth, and the minute fluttering of muscles was driving him mad with want. Damen willed himself to stay still, to remain on his feet on unsteady legs. He needed, desperately, to feel Laurent under his fingertips, to trace the contours of his body.

When Laurent withdrew, he let a hint of teeth scrape Damen’s cock in a controlled gesture. Another flicker of tongue over the head, longer this time. Damen couldn’t. He had to.

“Can I,” he heard himself say, as if from far away. It didn’t sound like his voice. “Can I touch, please, Laurent, I need.” He would be careful. He knew there were touches Laurent didn’t like. But Damen had learned him.

“Please,” he said. “Laurent. Let me.”

“Careful,” Laurent said. He said it so that his breath brushed against Damen’s cock, drying the wet traces where his mouth had just been. Damen could feel the words, a physical sensation to go with the sight in front of him, the hoarse sound of Laurent’s voice. He shivered.

Slowly, very slowly, he put one hand on Laurent’s shoulder, anchoring him. With the other, he pushed Laurent’s hair back from where it hung over his eyes. Laurent looked up at him then, for the first time; it was, suddenly, the most intimate they’d ever been. He traced Laurent’s cheekbone, his jaw and his mouth, his curved lips. There, under his hand, was solid proof that he wasn’t imagining this. Damen felt the shape of himself, stretching the flesh of Laurent’s cheek. He felt a familiar clench in his stomach, and he knew he wasn’t going to last.

Laurent put both hands over his hips, holding him still, then swallowed him down again, smooth as velvet. Damen swayed in place, arms falling at his sides. He’d thought of this, many times. He’d pictured it. One night, perhaps, Laurent would give him this, in an overdressed bed in some Veretian border keep, soft silks bedding and Laurent’s cheeks flushed with inexperience. It would have been tender. He could never have imagined any of this: fallen leaves under Laurent’s knees, the distant chirping of crickets, the heat of the fire and his shaking legs. He hadn’t expected Laurent to be so good at this.

Damen was kept in place under Laurent’s hold, Laurent’s mouth drawing desperate moans from his body. He came, body spasming, in Laurent’s throat. Laurent had done this for him, he’d let Damen do this to him. The thought was intoxicating.

He let himself fall to the ground, utterly spent.

“Let me,” he said. To his own ears, he sounded wrecked. “Laurent.” He didn’t know what he was asking for. He wanted to reach for Laurent – he wanted Laurent, now more than ever; wanted to see him writhe in pleasure and spill in Damen’s hands in a cascade of soft noises, like pearls.

He searched Laurent’s face and found him staring, narrow-eyed, and looking just the slightest bit dishevelled.

“I haven’t given you permission to address me by name,” said Laurent, in a tone of voice that somehow suggested he might go away and find more clothes to put on, or perhaps his armour. His voice was rough because he’d just had Damen’s cock in his throat. He’d knelt here, in the grass. Damen made no attempt to hide how charmed he was.

“Laurent.” He could hardly conceal his cheerfulness, either. “Kiss me.” Laurent’s glare turned sharper, but the corner of his mouth rose up a fraction.

Damen said, “What would you like? Tell me. I want…” I want to make you feel good, he wanted to say. He couldn’t begin to guess how Laurent would react to that. Instead, he offered out a hand, reaching between their bodies.

Laurent took it, but instead of letting himself be drawn in closer he stood up and used Damen’s outstretched hand to pull him up to his feet. “I’m fine,” he said. “It’s cold. Let’s go by the fire.”

He let Laurent lead him, hand in hand, like lovers on an evening stroll. Damen watched as Laurent began undressing, pulling on his myriads of tiny strings, and felt his body drum with anticipation until he saw that Laurent was merely making himself comfortable, and didn’t look inclined to continue what he’d started. Damen blinked in confusion, and a faint disappointment. He would give Laurent anything in this moment if he’d only known what Laurent could want, but instead he let himself be manoeuvred to sit by the fire, Laurent curled up against him.

Nestled against his side, Laurent was staring into the flames, knees held close to his chest in a boyish posture. “You killed one of your own people for me. That was…” he sounded very young. “You have my thanks, for saving my life.”

Then he said, “I like it when you say my name.” And then, because it was Laurent, he added. “Ideally not in public. That really would have half my lords convinced I am in enemy thrall.”

The tone of Laurent’s voice, vexed and almost resigned, had him laughing. “Thank you,” said Damen, and then because he wanted to. “Laurent.”

He wished, badly, that he could offer his own name in return. He wanted to hear it from Laurent’s lips as they came together, a careful whisper in the dark. But he’d seen how Laurent got when he said his name already: cold-eyed and filled with hate.

Laurent’s eyes found his own, above the flames. There was something lurching in Damen’s chest, a feeling like waves in the ocean. They would come crashing down one day, from the height of the cliffs into the waters. But not yet.


	12. The tent

The morning after, they woke up surrounded by clansmen with grim faces and clothes spotted with blood. They were tied up on their saddles and brought to the clansmen’s camp and threw down on the dirty ground like logs. Laurent got himself in trouble, which was predictable, by standing to his feet when he should have remained down and whispering something venomous to the clan leader, who was armed and didn’t seem to care about Laurent’s well-being in the slightest.

The leader hit Laurent in the mouth when he spoke, a predictable reaction. Damen’s hands were tired with crude rope that dug into his wrists as he reeled on the ground, powerless. The leader said something in Vaskian that sounded like a crude joke, leering Laurent’s direction as he looked him up and down. One of the clansmen joined in, uncomfortably close. He looked about Laurent’s age, under the grit on his face and the open wound running through his cheek, and he thrust his hips up into the air and made an obscene gesture with his hands that Damen had only seen in the roughest of mercenaries.

Damen stood up. That made the clan leader take notice of him.

The leader walked to Damen and stared him down as he’d just done to Laurent, with none of the lust and double the contempt. “ _Akielen_ ,” he said. Then he spat on Damen’s face.

He said something in Vaskian, his words harsh and mouth curled in a snarl. The young warrior with the wound on his face shifted closer, drumming his fingers on the hilt of his knife. “Your people,” he translated, in heavily-accented dialectal Akielon, “Died like pigs. Squealing.”

He grinned, then licked his lips. “Your women,” he said. “And your boys. They were delicious.”

Damen moved, but the Vaskians had been expecting it. Two of them had been flanking him since the leader had come his way and now they grabbed at him before he had time to resist, gripping his tied arms roughly under the shoulder. Damen managed to drive his shoulder against the nose of one of the men, smashing it, and the man loosened his hold to scream in pain. Damen drove the tip of his boot with precision against the shin of the clansman who’d grinned, making him yelp, but by then the Vaskians had regained their hold on both of his arms and Damen was shoved down to his knees to the ground, breathing hard.

“Idiot,” the leader said, in Veretian. He looked down to Damen.

Damen considered his options. He could hit back. As long as he didn’t kill any of them, they seemed to find him amusing. He could risk more and take down the clan leader, drag him down and go for the throat. He eyed the men with crossbows, standing back at the edge of the group. Perhaps, with the leader incapacitated, they might gain some time. Or perhaps that might get him killed.

Damen breathed in, and braced himself for the blows he knew were coming.

Then Laurent spoke.

Damen had seen him approach in the corner of his vision, walking slowly with his hands raised next to his face. The clansmen didn’t stop him, likely because they did not seem to think him a threat. Laurent came to stand in front of Damen, between his kneeling body and the leader.

He said something in Vaskian, and Damen could understand enough of the vicious tone to know it was an insult. Some of the Vaskians shifted, tensing. Two of them raised their crossbows. Damen felt cold fear pool in his stomach.

Laurent spoke again, his tone mocking, more urgent. The leader barked something to Laurent’s face, and Damen could see the anger in his eyes. He thought of how Laurent would look now, perfectly composed, utterly despicable. The leader laughed, low and mean. Then he hit Laurent in the jaw.

It was a stronger blow than when he’d been hit earlier. Damen saw Laurent stumble on his feet and attempted to move, but he was held down tightly. Laurent raised his head and spoke again, quick and spiteful. The leader hit him again with a sick crunch and this time Laurent went to the ground, landing on his back. He sat up on his elbows and one of the men holding Damen down kicked him on the thigh. When Laurent spat to the ground, it was red with blood.

His eyes found Damen’s. The side of Laurent’s face was red, and there was blood at the corner of his mouth.

“Wait,” he said.

Then he drew himself up. The clan leader came closer and grabbed him by the neck of his jacket. Laurent replied loudly, making some of the Vaskians yell, and the leader dragged him away from the circle towards the other end of the camp. Most of the clansmen followed.

Laurent seemed to stumble slightly as he was marched away. The leader barked something over his shoulder to the men guarding Damen, and he understood enough to tell that it had been an order to watch him. As he watched the other men drag Laurent away he was taken with a sense of urgency — his trust in Laurent’s plan was faltering; he needed to act now. His hands were still tied between his back, but there were only six men guarding him. Perhaps…

That was when he heard the noise of horses coming up from behind the trees, the shout of warriors. Akielon patrols, Damen thought for a heartbeat, but it couldn’t be. The yells sounded like women.

The clansmen holding him let him go to defend themselves, surprised by the sudden attack, and Damen took advantage of their lapse in attention to roll away and find cover. He made short work of his restraints, then went to find a weapon. Laurent, he thought, in a fit of worry. He searched the camp among the chaos of the battle, half-hiding behind barrels and trees with his sword in hand.

He found Laurent at the other side of the camp, limping slightly. His hands were still tied, and his face looked slightly swollen.

“Here!” Damen called. He waved his arm, and he thought that he could see the relief on Laurent’s face when he caught sight of him.

They met halfway. Damen took Laurent by the shoulders, assessing him critically for injuries, then began to untie his hands.

He cleared his throat. “I thought you had a plan.”

“Yes,” said Laurent, slowly. “This was it.”

“Getting yourself beaten up was the plan?”

“They wouldn’t have killed me.” His upper lip was swollen. Damen felt the impulse to trace the curve of it with his finger.

“They weren’t going to kill me either.”

He finished cutting the restrains that bound Laurent’s wrists then took them in his hands, circling with his fingers the red burns left by the rope.

“They weren’t going to kill you,” Laurent said. “Yet.”

He stared at him pointedly. Damen didn’t like this — feeling useless, not being able to protect Laurent even when he’d wanted to. He walked with large steps towards the edge of the camp and set himself to cutting down any of the men who tried to escape. Laurent went to find himself a sword and placed himself at Damen’s left, a strange comfort among the noises of the battle. In Akielos, it was said that nothing brought two men closer than fighting side by side.

Soon the men had all been killed or captured, and Laurent approached Halvik to than her for doing his work for him.

“We’ll keep the horses and the weapon,” she reminded him. “And any prisoners you don’t need.”

“Of course,” Laurent agreed smoothly. Halvik stared at him critically.

“Was this your first battle? Do not worry. Smart women won’t be repulsed by bruising.”

He heard Laurent choke back a laugh. Once Halvik had left them, with loud instructions to her women to make camp, Damen turned to him.

“Will we stay here tonight?”

Laurent nodded. “Halvik will help us march all of our prisoners down the mountain tomorrow. We’ll make good time.”

Damen was about to ask him more — what Laurent meant to achieve with the clansmen, what exactly his accords with Halvik had entailed, if his body hurt where he’d been kicked — but one of Halvik’s clanswomen came up to them and gently grasped him by the shoulder.

“Come, Akielon.” She spoke slowly in accented Veretian, her voice strangely melodic. “Halvik ordered that you’re bathed for your Prince, and provided with hakesh for a good night.”

Under Laurent’s amused eyes, he followed.

Vaskian hospitality wasn’t as exciting the second time around. Damen was tired and bruised, and the day had left him with very little patience. He didn’t feel especially virile as the Vaskian women washed him, making appreciative comments about his body all the while, and gestured for him to eat his meats so that he could best satisfy his Prince.

Damen didn’t think Laurent would find that part of him particularly satisfactory, in the state he was in, except perhaps that the sight of his loincloth might cause him to shake with laughter. He buried himself among the furs in the ridiculously small tent, he weathered Laurent’s reaction at the sight of him and listened to Laurent talk about how much the Veretian border lords hated Akielos with crescent unease. Outside, the tribe sang and laughed around the fire.

There was hardly any space in the tent, and Laurent had curled up next to him with one hand resting across his knees, staring down at Damen as he spoke. There was a bruise blooming across the side of his face, wide and purple, and Laurent caught him looking at it.

“I didn’t think it would be that impressive.”

Damen snorted. “It’s awful,” he said. “Terribly ugly.” He raised his hand to trace the contour of Laurent’s lips, and Laurent hissed softly.

He tugged Laurent down to kiss him, slowly, running his hands across Laurent’s shoulders, his arms. Once he’d started Damen found that he couldn’t stop touching him, frantic, even if just to feel him. He thought he might go crazy with need, crawling out of his skin.

Laurent sat up to his knees, and Damen made a sound at the loss of warmth. He opened his eyes, slowly, to find Laurent casting a speculative look across Damen’s body. “Did you drink the hakesh?”

Damen felt his face flush. But his back ached from being tied up and dragged for miles, and he was so tired that he felt like he could melt into the furs. “I,” he said. “I don’t think I can, tonight.”

“That’s a pity.” Laurent had never sounded twenty as much as he did at this moment. His eyes on Damen were like a caress. “All that preparation, gone to waste.”

“It was supposed to be for the both of us.” Or so Damen had been told by the women, at great length. “To share.”

Laurent said, “I actually meant your – attire. Are you suggesting we carry a jug of hakesh down to mountains, for cold nights?”

When Damen didn’t say anything Laurent laughed, then let himself fall down among the furs. He said, “Thirty miles march tomorrow. We should sleep.”

Damen took in the sight of him, white-clad and resplendent. The Vaskian bedclothes suited him, softening his features into something almost ethereal, and the flickering lantern bathed his figure in shades of gold. His throat went suddenly dry as he swallowed, hands trembling with the need to touch. His leg tingled where it brushed Laurent's hip, and the scant inches that separated their bodies felt like an unbearable distance.

Laurent quenched the lights and sunk down into the bedroll, rearranging himself among the pillows with his usual fussiness. He laid his head on Damen’s shoulder; then, apparently satisfied, let out a content little sigh.

There was a warmth spreading inside Damen’s chest, almost like if he’d drunk the hakesh, but softer. He heard his own voice say, as if from far away, “You could fuck me.”

He felt Laurent’s sharp intake of breath and his own reaction, a sudden, excited clench in his belly. He’d been thinking about it, over and over, day and night. He’d been fearing it at first, then mildly intrigued, and now he wanted it desperately, the hot press of Laurent filling him.

Damen waited. He brought one arm to circle Laurent’s shoulders, pressing Laurent’s familiar shape against his side. “You could fuck me, right now. We could – I’ve thought about it.” His voice had turned rough with anticipation. “Laurent,” he said. “You could–”

Laurent said, sharply, “Stop.”

He didn’t understand. Yesterday Laurent had gone to his knees for him in the woods, and Damen had thought that now Laurent had given himself to him in all ways, he would welcome the same from him. He wanted to bring Laurent pleasure in all the ways a man could to another. He’d been certain that Laurent would want this, at least half as much as Damen himself did. But Laurent had gone rigid next to him, the way he’d once used to when they’d been strangers.

He said, “Have I offended you? I am sorry. I didn’t think–”

“It’s not that.” Slowly, very slowly, he felt some of the tension leave Laurent’s body.

“You haven’t offended me,” said Laurent. “But we shouldn’t – I am not going to do that to you.”

It wasn’t like Laurent to shy away from saying the word fuck. Damen tried to think. “Do you dislike the idea? I thought – I thought you might enjoy it.”

“Yes,” said Laurent, which didn’t make any sense. Then he said, “I appreciate you offering. I know it means something different to your people.”

In Akielos, consideration was given to matters like social status and relative position. Since arriving in Arles, Damen had often wondered about the intimate arrangements between pets and their masters. “Does it not in Vere?”

“In Vere, we aren’t as obsessed with status in bed.” Laurent certainly should know something about that, given the way his own sworn men kept going about the shape of ass and wanting to fuck his mouth and how his long lashes would look streaked with come. “We do what we like, with whom we like.”

Damen couldn’t stop thinking about Laurent in the Vaskian camp, rising to his feet in front of the clan leader. The bruise on Laurent’s jaw, a crude blemish on his pale skin. Damen wanted him. “I think I would like to do that,” he said. He felt the desire in his voice, the sting of rejection. “With you.”

Laurent gave an inelegant snort. “You’ve never done it, have you?”

It could be, maybe, that Laurent was nervous about his lack of expertise, He wore cold arrogance like chain mail, but under it, he could be painfully self-conscious. Or he had been, at any rate, when they’d begun.

“I’ve never done it.”

Laurent made another soft sound of scorn. “Exactly.”

Then, having perhaps realised how insufferable he was being, he set about becoming even more insufferable. “You shouldn’t want this with me. I thought you were furious with me. You should be. Do you remember Arles?” he asked. “I put you in the ring in Arles. Against Govart. You were drugged. I had servants prepare you so you could be raped.”

He said all of this in soft tones into Damen’s ear, encircled in Damen’s arms, like a lover. They were lovers. After a fashion.

Damen said, “Are you trying to make me angry?”

“No. I am trying to tell you,” said Laurent. “You shouldn’t forget who you’re dealing with just because I sucked your cock and let you take liberties with me.”

Trust Laurent to make everything ugly and difficult. Minutes ago, the mood had been tender and open between them; now Laurent was picking at half-healed wounds, making them itch and fester.

“I know I can be cruel,” said Laurent. “Sometimes. I can’t help it. I had my reasons for it. I acted – unnecessarily. But–”

They were still embracing. Damen said, “Laurent.”

Laurent shifted around so that he was lying on top of him, his chin nestled into the curve of Damen’s neck.

Damen reached out and put one hand on Laurent’s back, pressing him even closer. He was reeling with the need to touch, a mounting want. His other hand under the soft white cloth of Laurent's bedclothes, craving the feel of skin against skin. “Take this off,” he said.

“I thought,” Laurent’s lips moved against his skin. “You wanted to go to sleep.”

“I want…” He wanted to make things right between them again. “I want to touch you. You didn’t, last time. Let me.”

The words stretched in the space between them, anticipatory.

“Well.” Laurent’s voice was rough, breathless. “I’m not saying no.”

“What—” Damen’s words caught in his throat. “What would you like? I could… with my mouth. Or my hand.”

“That,” Laurent breathed. Damen felt it against his throat, and shivered. “Your hand,” he said, imperiously. He sat up, straddling Damen’s hips, and began taking off his clothes. “Put your fingers inside me.”

He undressed, then stretched out next to Damen on the furs. Damen traced the shape of Laurent’s body in the shadows, tilted his chin up for a kiss. “Turn around.” He kissed the back of Laurent’s neck, ran his fingers down the length of Laurent’s spine. The tent was tiny, and he had to curl up in the small space to shift position.

The Vaskian oils in the tent smelled faintly like hakesh. Damen dipped his hand in it, then nudged his fingers between Laurent’s spread legs. Laurent’s hips jerked when Damen’s traced the rim of his hole, and he pressed back against Damen’s hand as he pushed his finger slowly inside.

“Is this good?” Damen’s whisper was soft in the shadows. He half expected Laurent to snort, but he made a small noise and squirmed under Damen’s touch. Damen shifted his finger inside of him, his other hand brushing the back of Laurent’s thigh.

“Slow,” Laurent instructed. “Another.” There was a lazy quality in the tone of his voice, and Damen liked it. He took his time, unhurried, taking pleasure in the rough sounds of Laurent’s breathing, the way Laurent’s whole body seemed to shift into the contact. He curled his fingers, and Laurent let out a low moan.

“Do you like it?” he asked, curious.

“Are you angling for compliments?” Laurent said, as though they didn't both know why Damen had asked. “It’s good. It’s—” He groaned. “I like it.”

He’d turned his head to the side, mouth half-open over the pillows. Damen couldn’t stop thinking about how it must feel. He pressed his lips to the skin of Laurent’s back. “What’s it like? To…”

“To get fucked?” In rhythm with his words, he clenched tight around Damen’s fingers. “Are you ever going to talk about anything else now?”

“You seem to enjoy it,” Damen said, and Laurent snorted.

“That’s nothing to do with you.” And then, “Another.”

Damen pulled his fingers out instead and rested his hand on the curve of Laurent’s ass, wet with oil. “Tell me,” he said. “I want to hear you.”

Laurent craned his neck to look at him. His face was cast in half-shadows, but Damen was sure he must be glaring at him. He couldn’t hold back a huff of laughter. “You’re conceited,” Laurent said. “And smug, and—” He went quiet, suddenly, at the feeling of Damen’s breath over his flesh. Damen felt him tremble in anticipation.

He bent his head and leaned down to lick a long stripe across Laurent’s hole, where his fingers had just been. The oil had the faint taste of Vaskian herbs, but the consistency wasn't wholly unpleasant to the tongue. He did it again.

“Oh,” Laurent said. “That’s…” He moaned. “Do that again.” 

“You haven’t answered my question.”

Laurent’s breath hitched as he pushed his fingers back inside of him, and he arched up into it.

“I like it,” he said. “Feeling it, inside. It’s good.” He was panting, his voice low raw. “I like you pushing me down. On top of me.” He shuddered, and Damen felt a surge of arousal run through him. “And I like it when it stings a bit.”

The sound of Laurent’s breaths was loud in the quiet intimacy of the tent. Damen used his other hand to keep him spread open, fingers digging into soft flesh, then licked right over his hole, and Laurent’s whole body shook with it. He keened, shuddering, and pushed himself up on his hands and knees so Damen could slip his tongue inside of him, spread open from his fingers. He pulled back just enough to suck wetly on Laurent’s rim, feeling Laurent’s hole twitch under his mouth, Laurent’s body shaking as he cried out. Damen found himself growing hard just from Laurent’s moans, the feeling of Laurent shuddering all around his tongue. He licked again once, twice, then drew back so that he could angle up his hand and curl up his fingers inside Laurent the way he liked.

“I like that,” Laurent was saying, his voice trembling with arousal. “You’re — you’re good at it.” When he made to touch his cock, Damen stopped him with a touch to the arm.

“Can you turn around?” he said. “I want to watch you come.”

Laurent exhaled roughly once, twice, getting himself under control. “All right.” He rose slowly to his knees. “Get on your back. Sit up.”

It wasn't exactly easy, in that small confined space. Damen made a small pile of their saddle packs and threw some furs on top of it, then sat with his back against it like on a pillow. He moved overly conscious of Laurent’s eyes watching him, Laurent’s hand clutching at his cock as he watched Damen move.

“There,” he said, once he was done, and he’d sat up with his shoulders propped up over the furs. “Are you going to give me a show?” If he’d said that to Laurent only two weeks ago his face would have flamed red. Now he met Damen's eyes with confidence.

“Stay there,” he said, and he settled down on Damen’s lap. Laurent’s back was flushed against his chest, and Damen could put his chin to Laurent's shoulder and watch Laurent’s long fingers wrapped around his cock.

“Put your fingers back in me,” he said, and Damen did. They watched together as Laurent brought himself off, groaning softly, clenching tight around Damen’s hand as he came.

He was gorgeous, Damen thought. He tightened his hold around Laurent’s chest, breathing in the scent of his skin. Laurent’s body shook with orgasm and Damen moaned at the feeling of him squirming on his lap, over his hard cock. Laurent caught it; he did it again, deliberately. “Oh, now you want to,” he said, and Damen breathed against the nape of his neck. “Laurent.”

Laurent pulled off him. “Lay down,” he said.

Laurent’s fingers skimmed the top of his thighs, his lower belly, barely brushing against his cock. “Don’t get used to this,” he said. Then he pressed his lips to the crease of Damen’s thigh. Damen groaned, his cock filling with blood. It twitched against Laurent’s cheek, and Laurent pulled back slightly. 

“You liked me sucking your cock,” he said, impossibly lewd. Damen watched his lips move, and wanted him desperately. “Tell me what you like about it.” He held Damen’s cock with a loose grip and swept his thumb against the wet slit.

“Laurent,” Damen panted. He couldn’t even begin to think what to say.

Laurent kept his eyes firmly on Damen’s. Then he leaned in and sucked the tip of Damen’s cock between his lips, tongue flickering against the sensitive head. Once or twice, his tongue darted out to lick a wet stripe along his shaft, and Damen groaned. Laurent looked beautiful like this, his lips wet, nuzzling against Damen’s cock. He pulled back, and Damen groaned at the loss. “I’m waiting.”

It was hard to think. Laurent’s hands were on his cock, working him, and Laurent’s mouth was pressing hot circles on the inside of his thighs. “I can’t,” Damen said, his voice broken.  He’d never wanted anyone this much. He couldn’t put it into words. 

“You can.” Laurent drew back. “I think you should try harder if you don’t want me to stop.” He was still touching him, thumbing distractedly at the head of his cock. The slight scrape of his blunt nails made him moan.

“Good,” Damen choked out. “So good, Laurent.” It was all he could manage. He could feel the weight of Laurent’s gaze on him, and he heard Laurent hum softly to himself.

“Is that all? If you want me to keep going…” He bent down to lick the crease of Damen’s thigh. “You’re going to have to do better.”

Damen was panting, out of his mind with the small teasing huffs of Laurent’s breath on the wet head of his cock. “Don’t stop.” he breathed. 

“Don’t stop what?” Laurent’s voice was light, as light as the touch of his fingers brushing over Damen’s balls, making him shiver. “Tell me what you want.” He looked up to met Damen’s gaze. Damen felt a wave of heat roll through him, suddenly lucid.

“I already told you what I want,” he said, hoarse.

Above him, Laurent froze. Over the sound of his own heartbeat, Damen heard him breathe in sharply. He watched Laurent’s throat work as he swallowed. “Say it, then.” It was a challenge.

Damen felt his face flame, his whole body flush with heat. His tongue was heavy in his mouth. “Put your fingers in me.” Damen closed his eyes against the strange vulnerability he felt. In the dark, it was easier. “I want… please, Laurent. I want to feel it.”

Laurent swore softly under his breath.

Then Damen heard him shuffle, rising up on his knees. “Be still,” he said. His touch was light on Damen’s hip. Damen let himself be positioned, hips raised over the furs, his leg thrown to the side so Laurent could trail kisses down on the inside of his thigh. He sucked at the soft skin there, and Damen hissed. He heard the clinking noises of what must be the same jar he’d used earlier, and he stiffened.

“Open your eyes,” Laurent said. “Look at me.”

He found Laurent staring at him. He trailed one hand over Damen’s chest, up to cradle his face. He pressed his thumb against Damen’s lower lip. Damen couldn’t see what his other hand was doing, hidden by his own body. “You didn’t tell me what you liked. But I can guess.”

Damen felt Laurent’s fingers, wet with oil, lay gently on his thigh. He forced himself to stay still like Laurent had said. This was it, he thought. He was going to…

“You asked for this,” Laurent said. “You keep thinking about it, don’t you? Relax.” Laurent’s hand pumped his cock slowly like he’d done so many times before. His other hand was slick; it traced over his balls, the thin skin behind them, resting lightly over his hole. Damen tensed despite himself, but all Laurent did was jerk his cock into his hand. It felt good, and Damen’s hips bucked up into it.

“You liked me on my knees. You like that I’d only do that for you.” Laurent’s finger traced small circles over his hole in time with his words. “Just like I’m the only one who’s ever done this to you.”

A mounting sense of anticipation rose inside him as Laurent spoke, and he tilted his hips into the rhythm of Laurent’s strokes. That got him pressing back on Laurent’s finger, and then he felt it — the odd, new sensation of Laurent breaching him.

“Like this.” Laurent leaned closer, stretching above him, and pressed his lips to Damen’s chest. He sucked on the hollow of his throat. “I want you to think of this every time you look at me.”

“Laurent,” he said, a choked whisper.

Laurent’s finger was still inside, stretching him, He remembered Laurent’s words — _I like it when it stings a bit_. He bit down on his lip, trying to gauge the sensation. Instinctively, he found himself pushing down into it, and Laurent made an encouraging noise in the back of his throat. “That’s good,” he urged. His breath was warm as he nuzzled into Damen’s throat. “I’m going to give you another one.”

Damen shivered. Knowing what was coming made it worse, the simmering anticipation building up inside of him. It was hot in the tent and Laurent’s voice was low and warm, his breath brushing against Damen’s skin in time with his words. Then he pulled away, sitting up just as he slipped another finger inside of Damen. There was something about the angle — Damen felt him deeper this time, somehow. He hissed, and Laurent’s hand patted at his knee gently. The other was inside of him, breaching him open, and with every twist and stretch of his fingers Damen felt a warmth pulsating from within, all tangled up in the feeling of Laurent’s presence, the smell of his skin and the memory of Laurent’s taste on his lips.

“You _like it_.”

Laurent was studying him with an intent look on his features, a small satisfied smile on his lips. He did it again, curling his fingers in a way that felt — there was something there, just out of reach. Damen pushed back against it, chasing that feeling again, and Laurent laughed, unbridled and pure.

“You should see yourself,” he said. “You’re…”

“Laurent.” It was the only thing he could say. “Laurent.”

His face was flushed. He wanted to turn his head away but he liked the way Laurent was staring at him, all bright-eyed wonder. He liked the touch of Laurent’s hands, too, the way he stroked at Damen’s cock in time with his fingers moving inside of him, wringing out ragged groans as Damen’s hips bucked at the sensation. It was intense like this, twofold, and Damen caught himself wondering if this was how Laurent felt when Damen fucked him — and then, in his mind, he pictured Laurent above him with that same look of awe on his face, groaning as he thrust inside of him. He clenched around Laurent’s fingers and thought about how it’d feel to have his cock there instead, to be stretched wider, fucked deeper.

The thought was overwhelming. Damen moaned, and he rolled his hips as he came, pushing down against Laurent’s hand to chase the sensation of something inside of him. His body was covered in sweat; he felt dizzy, almost adrift. Laurent was looking at him still, mumbling something softly under his breath, and Damen blinked up at him. A warm feeling washed over him like waves, lodged itself in his chest in a way that was almost painful. Damen breathed out, slowly, and felt it grow.


	13. Breteau

They returned to camp just as the sun was about to set, escorted by the warrior women of Halvik’s clan and carrying along ten prisoners all tied to their saddles. The men on perimeter guard saluted sharply when they recognised Laurent, looking in equal parts relieved and stunned. Laurent ignored all their inquiries about their adventures on the mountain passes and their newfound retinue, and made straight for the campfire.

There he found Jord, who was sitting on a log talking to Aimeric, their heads very close together. They both rose sharply as Laurent approached.

“Your Highness,” Jord said, eyes lingering on the purple bruise on the side of Laurent’s face.

“Captain.” Laurent glanced at Aimeric, an imperious arching of his eyebrows. “Arrest this man.”

Jord startled. Quietly, he asked, “Your Highness?”

Damen felt a sense of mounting unease at the scene. The lines on the side of Jord’s eyes looked deeper than they had been a moment ago, and Aimeric had gone very rigid, his lips pale.

“Your Highness,” he said. “That— it’s not true. I would never—”

“I don’t like repeating myself.” Laurent waited, expectantly. “I want him arrested.”

Jord’s lips moved but it was a moment before he spoke. “On what charge?”

“Treason. Have him searched.” He turned to Aimeric. “Where were you last night?”

“In the camp.” There was something feral in Aimeric’s eyes, like a scared animal, ready to hit back. Damen tensed.

“I was in the camp,” he said, again. “I was sleeping, I was—”

“Jord.” Laurent’s voice was very mild, and very dangerous. “Was Aimeric with you the entire time? Answer carefully, or you will join him.”

They had begun attracting attention from the men in the camp. Orlant was there, and Huet as well, and they both had their hands on their swords. Damen saw Jord take notice; he saw confusion on his face as he thought about Laurent’s question.

“He—”

“—Jord.” That was Aimeric; he sounded very young — _nineteen_. Damen had led armies at nineteen, and been a complete fool.

“He went for a walk, and…”

“ _Jord_. It’s not—”

“It was late. He stayed out so long, I thought he would feel cold.”

“You’re paranoid. You don’t know what you’re saying.” Aimeric looked quick from Jord to Laurent, then his eyes found Damen. “It’s the Akielon. He turned you—”

“Against my people?” Laurent said, softly. “That is what your father said. I prefer to think I just spotted a traitor.”

Then he said, to the men surrounding them, “Arrest him.”

For a moment, Jord’s hand twitched over the hilt of his sword and Damen felt fear creep over him. Then he let his arm fall to the side, dumbfounded, and stepped back with his head hanging low.

“ _You._ ” Aimeric made no move to take out a weapon and didn’t resist when two men grabbed him by the shoulders, but his eyes burned as he stared at Laurent with that bold fieriness he got when he was spoiling for a fight. “You’re a traitor to your own people. A filthy liar. He was right about you. You—”

“A traitor and a liar.” Aimeric had been shouting but Laurent spoke calmly, as if testing the weight of the words. He gave Aimeric a disdainful look.

“That’s you, also. At least I’m not a whore.”

Then he turned his back and walked away, uncaring of the explosion he’d caused.

Damen’s first instinct was to follow after him, but someone had to deal with Laurent’s mess. And he’d always liked Jord. He stood up straighter, and cupped his hands around his mouth.

“ _Enough_.”

It was loud enough to attract the attention over Aimeric’s cries. Aimeric spat out something, undoubtedly venomous, but Damen ignored him. He waved to Lazar. “You have your orders. Take him away. Gag him if you have to.”

Then he raised his voice again. “This spectacle is over. Go back to your posts. Who’s on cooking duty?” It was about that time of the evening. “Go secure the Vaskian prisoners. You,” he pointed to Rochert. “Put guards on them. At least three men for every watch.” He looked around. “Everyone else. Go back to your posts or I will find you something to do.”

The men shuffled their feet slowly, but they obeyed. Damen followed them around the camp for some time, breathing down their necks and making sure everything was getting done as it should, then went back to the fire. Jord was sitting to the side with his shoulders hunched, staring at his own hands in front of his face as if he weren’t seeing any of it. Slowly, Damen crouched down next to him and Jord’s head snapped up, eyes blinking.

“Do you…” He spoke awkwardly. “Would you like a drink?”

Jord seemed torn between wanting to drown himself in it and telling Damen to fuck off. Then, flatly, “How long had he been planning that?”

There was no right answer. Damen looked away, and Jord laughed bitterly.

“Right.”

He thought, then, about putting a hand on Jord’s shoulder. It was the kind of comfort he would have offered a companion back home, but here and now, it felt like an intrusion. “I am sorry,” he said instead.

“Yes.” Jord looked down at his hands again. “I think I’ll take that drink.”

They ended up sitting all the way across the campfire from where Jord had been talking to Aimeric, and Orlant joined them without Damen asking him to. Jord seemed to like that, and Damen kept his mouth shut. Between the three of them, they finished three bottles, with Jord doing the most of the drinking.

“I’m going to feel _like shit_ tomorrow,” he said at one point, then laughed bitterly. “Well.” The way he slurred his words reminded Damen of the dialect of Ishthima, and he said so. Jord seemed to find this very funny, and Orlant laughed with him, and they had another round of drinking.

Then, some time later, “I should’ve fucking known better. Aristocrats,” Jord spat out, and Damen looked away and took a long drag from his bottle to avoid anyone saying anything to him about Laurent. He wondered what Laurent had made of his absence before he’d inevitably found out where he was. He wondered if Jord saw him as a part of Laurent’s scheme.

“What do you think it’s going to happen to him?”

The words were low, barely more than a whisper. Jord was staring into the fire, his knuckles white where he gripped the neck of the bottle, and the only noise was the crackling of firewood. “Is he going to…” Jord swallowed audibly. “Execute him.”

Orlant grabbed the bottle from Damen’s hand and took a long gulp. Damen’s thoughts went to Aimeric’s defiant face as he’d been marched away, the way he’d held his head up high in the crowd. He’d been caught spying, but he’d been prevented from doing much damage, and his father was a powerful man.

“He wouldn’t do that.”

Orlant snorted loudly, then promptly choked on his drink. He coughed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You’re serious,” he told Damen, incredulous. “What, did you get all your brains sucked out through your cock? Idiot.”

Then, “When you get screwed over by another pretty aristocrat don’t come whining to me.” He nudged Jord with his shoulder. “Have another. We’re not drunk enough for this.”

It was some more time before Orlant deemed they had drunk enough. He enlisted Damen’s aid to help Jord walk to his bedding, then promptly told him to fuck off.

“I’ve known him longer,” he said. “And I can tell you’d rather get your dick wet than watch Jord throw his guts out.” Then he grabbed a fistful of Damen’s jacket and pulled him close. His breath smelled of cheap moonshine, and he spoke in a whisper so that Jord wouldn’t hear. “If you can get the Prince not to kill that fucking kid, that could help.” His lips twisted in a drunken smile that wasn’t quite friendly. “Maybe he’ll just whip him. Maybe he’ll end up liking that, eh? Go on.” He let go of Damen’s clothes and turned his back to him. “Have a good night.”

He stumbled, just slightly, on his way to Laurent’s tent. Laurent didn’t seem to want to talk about Aimeric; he was staring intently at the map, frowning slightly, and he kept frowning as he waved at Damen to go to him. He didn’t ask Damen where he’d been. “You know,” he said instead, “hosting warrior women in my camp proved to be a bigger headache than I thought.”

Damen sat. “Are you expecting you will need warriors?”

The missive they’d intercepted from Aimeric detailed a plan to draw Laurent’s men into a fight against the Lord of Ravenel; vastly outnumbered, they would have been killed to a man. Laurent had looked venomous, but not overly worried, and he’d sent out at least three different messenger that Damen knew of.

“Do you think we will have to fight?” He’d caught himself wondering, once or twice, which surprise allies Laurent had bid to find him in Ravenel. He hadn’t yet asked Laurent about it.

“We won’t. Not now, I don’t think.”

“If there was a battle…” Damen began, but Laurent shook his head.

“Don’t say it,” he said. “You don’t really know what you’re saying.”

“I mean it,” Damen said, but Laurent stood up and took his face between his hands, leaning down to kiss him.

“Stop talking.” He kept his hands on the sides of Damen’s face and sat straddling Damen’s lap as they kissed, but when he pulled back he was frowning again. “What have you been drinking? That’s disgusting.”

“It’s…” He watched Laurent curl up his nose at the smell of his breath. They’d shared one bottle of wine, then two of whatever sludge Orlant had on hand. He hadn’t offered details, and Damen sure as hell hadn’t asked. His mouth had gone numb to it, after a while.

“No, I mean it. How are you still standing?” He didn’t kiss him again, but he didn’t climb off either, and Damen didn’t suggest they get up even as the fragile folding chair creaked dangerously under their combined weight.

Putting his mouth close to Damen's ear, Laurent murmured, “We ride out at dawn,” and Damen shivered at the tone of his voice before he registered surprise at the change of topic. He spoke in low, intimate tones, about Lord Touars of Ravenel and his mission on the border, about the trap his uncle had tried to catch him in, and there his voice stumbled a little. Damen could feel his body tense where he was straddling his thighs. Laurent fell silent, and Damen ran his hands up and down Laurent's back. Abruptly, Laurent said, “What Govart said about my brother. About me and Auguste. It wasn't true.” Startled, Damen tried to look at him, but Laurent was sitting so close that he could only see the fall of his hair and part of his ear. Damen hadn't thought of Govart in weeks.

“I know,” he said, softly. Laurent was still tense, his breathing uneven.

“He would never... He was the best man I ever knew.” Damen had never thought Laurent could be this fumbling with words. “He was… you remind me of him, sometimes,” Laurent said, low and earnest, and Damen thought distantly that it was a very good thing he couldn’t see his face. Laurent’s nails dug into the back of his neck in a way that was almost painful, and the sound of his own heartbeat was astonishingly loud in the stillness of the tent. It was one of those momentous instants when the whole world balanced on the edge of a blade, and Damen struggled to draw in a breath. His hands felt cold with shock.

“Laurent,” he said, cautious.

“Shut up and let me do the talking. Your breath reeks.”

“Laurent.” He tried to say — he couldn’t take much longer of this, and neither should he. “Perhaps we should—”

“I’m not done,” Laurent said. “I’m trying to make you a promise. I’m…” He still had his head tucked against the crook of Damen’s neck, not looking at him. “When I will have done everything I need to, once we are in Ravenel and safe, I will let you go. We — you will face me again, one day. And afterwards…”

“Ravenel is two days away.”

His voice sounded odd. Laurent pulled back and stood up, taking with him all the warmth. When he looked down at Damen, his face was even and perfectly guarded. “If we make good time. Who knows, we may get waylaid on the road.”

Damen’s head spun. It must be the drink; he stood and went outside the tent to get some fresh air and throw some water over his face. He chewed on a dried mint leave to get the taste of moonshine off his tongue, and the cool sensation of it made his eyes water.

Laurent’s words had an effect on him that was hard to pin down. He’d begun the journey from Arles determined to escape as soon as the first opportunity presented itself, then he’d been so engrossed in the challenge Laurent’s plans represented that he’d half-forgotten about it. Lately, he had caught himself thinking that perhaps he could afford to see Laurent safely on his border patrol before leaving, that a few more weeks – a month or two – of helping thwart war-warmongering plans would be better for Akielos than his sudden return, quelling conflicts instead of escalating them.

But now Laurent, newly-repentant, was going to free him. That was significant, as though he’d really been a slave all this time. That meant something; from Laurent, for Damen. Of course, he would go, he would be a fool not to. Two, three more days.

He went back inside, and undressed. There was only the one sleeping pallet, and Laurent was sprawled down in the middle of it like a cat relaxing on a rooftop.

“Will Jord be sober enough to ride a horse tomorrow, you think?”

“Yes,” Damen said, curt. “He asked — what you mean to do with Aimeric.”

“I’m not surprised.”

Laurent didn’t offer anything more; in the silence that followed, Damen found himself staring at him. The bruise on Laurent’s jaw where the Vaskian man had hit him was purple and wildly incongruous, and it drew his eye like a needle to a magnet.

“What is it?” Laurent said.

“Nothing.”

Laurent’s face was, usually, chiselled perfection. With his immaculate clothing, polished boots and cool blue gaze, Laurent gave off the impression that he should walk amidst war and chaos and yet remain untouched by it, stand insouciant to the side while all the fires he’d set burned to collapse. The bruise was an ugly stain of violence where it didn’t belong.

Damen sat down among the linens of Laurent’s bedding, and he remembered the tent in Vask, and how close he’d come to dying lost and nameless in foreign lands. Then he thought of Laurent comparing him to Auguste and the storm it caused inside of him. Laurent’s jagged apologies, his promise of freedom.

“You keep staring at me.”

Laurent didn’t sound like he minded. He said, “That’s a really impressive bruise.”

Laurent’s lips curled into a small, slow smile. “So you’ve said. Careful. Or I might start thinking you shallow.”

It was late into the evening, and Damen’s world had warped into a nonsensical surge of feelings. He rolled on his stomach, pressing his cheek against a pillow. “Your face is one of your best qualities.”

“I wasn’t aware I had any.”

Anybody else, and Damen would have been sure they’d been angling for flattery. Not Laurent though. Laurent just couldn’t stand the thought of not having the last word.

So he said, “You’re good at leading. I told you, you are doing a good job. You’re inspiring the men. You–”

“I don’t want to talk about this now.”

Damen weighted his good humour and the late hour against Laurent’s attitude, and let it be. He threw his head back into the pillow. They would sleep, and wake up in the morning and then it would be one less day spent at Laurent’s side.

He counted seven heartbeats before Laurent spoke.

“I appreciate it. Your – good opinion of me. It’s something I value.”

He was speaking in Akielon, as they often did of late when they were alone. Under Laurent’s pleasing accent, Damen could hear faint marvel at his own words. He could feel that same wonder running like sparks through his body every time he looked at Laurent, every time they touched when he remembered how far they’d come.

“Laurent.” He said it like a prayer.

“You say my name like you are two seconds away from listing all of my good qualities.”

Laurent sounded pleased. He smiled. “Everyone knows you don’t have any.”

“Besides my face?”

Damen rolled around on the bedding, pressed his palms to Laurent’s cheeks. “Besides your face.” He kissed him, sweet and dry, on the lips.

“You know, no one has called me by name in years. It’s…” He made a face, his mouth turning under Damen’s lips. He kissed him again, shifting closer. “I like it.”

Back in Ios, when Theomedes had been King and Damen his heir, he’d still had friends and family, lovers and companions. Laurent’s boyhood sounded very lonely. “No one?”

Laurent turned his head to the side. “I didn’t— my uncle, sometimes, but…” he trailed off. Damen could see a hint of Laurent’s face, bathed in the shadows. He remembered the small fire among the mountain passes, and Laurent’s voice saying, _I didn_ _’t think he’d really try to kill me, after everything_.

When Laurent spoke again it was toneless and bitter, terrible. “We were close, years ago. The closest, after my brother. He would let me follow him around, tell me about administration and histories and policies… my father hated it,” he said. “He thought Uncle was coddling me, encouraging pointless pursuits. He was – the only person who ever preferred me to Auguste, which I thought was ridiculous of him because I would have preferred Auguste too, but I liked it. Being the favourite.”

“We don’t have to talk about this,” Damen said. He thought about Kastor. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“We aren’t talking about anything.” Laurent still had his face turned away. “You wouldn’t try to kill me now, would you? That’s an improvement over him, at least.” Then, in a voice that still retained some of that edge, “Will you miss me after you leave?” It was less sweet than it was vicious. Damen accepted it all the same.

“Will you?”

Laurent scoffed. “What do you think?” He was looking at Damen now, and his eyes were keen and knowing.

“I think…” He traced the curve of Laurent’s bottom lip with his thumb. “Once I’m gone, we won’t be able to do this.”

Laurent had spoken about it casually, but it was the first time Damen gave voice to the thought, the inevitability of it. A small frown appeared on Laurent’s forehead, narrowed blue eyes searching inside him.

Laurent kissed him, taking his mouth as if he were trying to capture the taste of him. He kissed him long and deep, until Damen was shuddering with the sensation of it.

“No,” Laurent said. “We won’t.”

And he kissed him again.

**Author's Note:**

> tumbling @ [liesmyth](https://liesmyth.tumblr.com) // [twitter](https://twitter.com/liesmyth_)


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